#round one part six

[themagnustournament]

Round One Part Six - Match 51

rip Gertrude's assistants tbh. Anyway Concrete Jungle makes me think of Fordlandia. That shit was wild.

MAG 167 - Curiosity | Spotify - Acast - YT | Wiki | Transcript

An examination of Gertrude Robinson and her assistants. Audio recording by the Archivist.

MAG 149 - Concrete Jungle | Spotify - Acast - YT | Wiki | Transcript

Statement of Judith O'Neill, regarding their time at the Anglo-Brazilian Amazon Trust.

[tsuchinokoroyale]

More like rad-b-gone lol

[xx-katisnothere-xx]

They haven’t even released yet but you see these Stone Ocean plushies? They’re already one of my holy grails.

I JUST WANT ONE. I DON’T CARE WHICH ONE BUT JUST ONE PLEASE THEY’RE SO CUTE!!!!! 😭😭😭

[reasonsforhope]

"With “green corridors” that mimic the natural forest, the Colombian city is driving down temperatures — and could become five degrees cooler over the next few decades.

In the face of a rapidly heating planet, the City of Eternal Spring — nicknamed so thanks to its year-round temperate climate — has found a way to keep its cool.

Previously, Medellín had undergone years of rapid urban expansion, which led to a severe urban heat island effect — raising temperatures in the city to significantly higher than in the surrounding suburban and rural areas. Roads and other concrete infrastructure absorb and maintain the sun’s heat for much longer than green infrastructure.

“Medellín grew at the expense of green spaces and vegetation,” says Pilar Vargas, a forest engineer working for City Hall. “We built and built and built. There wasn’t a lot of thought about the impact on the climate. It became obvious that had to change.”

Efforts began in 2016 under Medellín’s then mayor, Federico Gutiérrez (who, after completing one term in 2019, was re-elected at the end of 2023). The city launched a new approach to its urban development — one that focused on people and plants.

The $16.3 million initiative led to the creation of 30 Green Corridors along the city’s roads and waterways, improving or producing more than 70 hectares of green space, which includes 20 kilometers of shaded routes with cycle lanes and pedestrian paths.

These plant and tree-filled spaces — which connect all sorts of green areas such as the curb strips, squares, parks, vertical gardens, sidewalks, and even some of the seven hills that surround the city — produce fresh, cooling air in the face of urban heat. The corridors are also designed to mimic a natural forest with levels of low, medium and high plants, including native and tropical plants, bamboo grasses and palm trees.

Heat-trapping infrastructure like metro stations and bridges has also been greened as part of the project and government buildings have been adorned with green roofs and vertical gardens to beat the heat. The first of those was installed at Medellín’s City Hall, where nearly 100,000 plants and 12 species span the 1,810 square meter surface.

“It’s like urban acupuncture,” says Paula Zapata, advisor for Medellín at C40 Cities, a global network of about 100 of the world’s leading mayors. “The city is making these small interventions that together act to make a big impact.”

At the launch of the project, 120,000 individual plants and 12,500 trees were added to roads and parks across the city. By 2021, the figure had reached 2.5 million plants and 880,000 trees. Each has been carefully chosen to maximize their impact.

“The technical team thought a lot about the species used. They selected endemic ones that have a functional use,” explains Zapata.

The 72 species of plants and trees selected provide food for wildlife, help biodiversity to spread and fight air pollution. A study, for example, identified Mangifera indica as the best among six plant species found in Medellín at absorbing PM2.5 pollution — particulate matter that can cause asthma, bronchitis and heart disease — and surviving in polluted areas due to its “biochemical and biological mechanisms.”

And the urban planting continues to this day.

The groundwork is carried out by 150 citizen-gardeners like Pineda, who come from disadvantaged and minority backgrounds, with the support of 15 specialized forest engineers. Pineda is now the leader of a team of seven other gardeners who attend to corridors all across the city, shifting depending on the current priorities...

“I’m completely in favor of the corridors,” says [Victoria Perez, another citizen-gardener], who grew up in a poor suburb in the city of 2.5 million people. “It really improves the quality of life here.”

Wilmar Jesus, a 48-year-old Afro-Colombian farmer on his first day of the job, is pleased about the project’s possibilities for his own future. “I want to learn more and become better,” he says. “This gives me the opportunity to advance myself.”

The project’s wider impacts are like a breath of fresh air. Medellín’s temperatures fell by 2°C in the first three years of the program, and officials expect a further decrease of 4 to 5C over the next few decades, even taking into account climate change. In turn, City Hall says this will minimize the need for energy-intensive air conditioning...

In addition, the project has had a significant impact on air pollution. Between 2016 and 2019, the level of PM2.5 fell significantly, and in turn the city’s morbidity rate from acute respiratory infections decreased from 159.8 to 95.3 per 1,000 people [Note: That means the city's rate of people getting sick with lung/throat/respiratory infections.]

There’s also been a 34.6 percent rise in cycling in the city, likely due to the new bike paths built for the project, and biodiversity studies show that wildlife is coming back — one sample of five Green Corridors identified 30 different species of butterfly.

Other cities are already taking note. Bogotá and Barranquilla have adopted similar plans, among other Colombian cities, and last year São Paulo, Brazil, the largest city in South America, began expanding its corridors after launching them in 2022.

“For sure, Green Corridors could work in many other places,” says Zapata."

-via Reasons to Be Cheerful, March 4, 2024

[xxcrystalinerose]

Going back to Zag's romantic relationships from Mel is extremely hilarious to me because of how comparatively well-adjusted he was.

Sure he done fucked up with Meg in the past and they had to kill each other as part of the job description, his sudden leaving seriously hurt Than while also having communication issues w/ each other, and there's the matter of Dusa being a lowly servant of the House. But in the end, he sorted everything out with 0 grievances from all parties involved (that one dialogue where Than admits Meg is the one who tells him to finally pursue Zag seriously warms my heart). Got the Mom(s) Seal of Approval™ even, and from Achilles too!

Meanwhile I look at Melinoë and she has a frankly criminal amount of situationships. Her rizz level is insane and she goes straight for the throat when flirting yet somehow her dating life is simultaneously a mess and nonexistent. Nemesis regularly kicks her into the dirt verbally AND physically but is the only person to acknowledge how fucked up it is that Mel is sent out alone in the hopes of killing an all powerful Titan that took SIX gods to kill in the past. "Fuck you and fuck your stupid frog in particular" then turns around and gives free Death Defiances. Her and Moros try to flirt with each other but they kept missing the mark because sometimes one of them says something totally unhinged like it was normal (I don't think watching people die is an appropriate bathtime conversation topic, my man). Her and Eris are a hot mess—literally with all those rounds she shot at Mel AND without a basis of workplace professionalism. Icarus is one shot nerve away from accidentally proclaiming his undying (literally) love to her but his guilt complex is hanging on to that nerve. And then there's Arachne and her not so little crush warring with the fact that said crush is family with and is helping the gods who cursed her.

Never have I realized how important it is that Zag has become a minor god of relationship counselling until I look at his baby sister and think, "yeah girl you definitely need help for all that shit".

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

[chuluoyi]

✎ treasure

- gojo satoru x reader

the strongest sorcerer meets his match in his petulant son, who inherits his six eyes and is having trouble with them

genre: taking care of your son with dad!gojo, fluff/comfort

note: AAAA i love this waaay too much!😭 this brilliant idea gave me baby fever so bad came from an anon who so energetically dropped by my askbox, thank you! and seeing this artwork by Yoon in twitter definitely gave me more ideas too!

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

"No!"

"Why? This helps—"

"That's ugly! I don't want to look ugly—like you!"

Satoru blinked in utter disbelief, and you broke into the most satisfying fits of laughter. In front of him, standing tall and sullen and very much like him was his own son, now barely five years old.

Your boy mentioned that he had been experiencing discomfort in his eyes lately, which also caused him to become dizzy. And Satoru attempted to persuade him to use a blindfold like he did because it was effective.

However, as we can see, his son didn't take his suggestion well at all. His bright blue eyes, ones your husband passed down, bore an intense glare aimed squarely at him.

"I..." Satoru sputtered, his eyes twitching. The sight was comical as no one had ever managed to elicit such a reaction from him. And no one ever considered him an unattractive person too! "I'm not—"

"You are!"

Once again, you let out a triumphant cackle, and this time your husband shot you a glare. But you didn't care. All those years of tolerating his antics had paid off. His son had finally put him in his place!

When he was a baby, you thought your son was Gojo Satoru incarnate. He was the spitting image of him—with all gaits and expressions too. And you had worried if he would turn out to be just as much of a menace as he was.

But apparently, life has other sweet plans because like you, he was a relatively calm boy, diligent, and didn't like to make a fuss. Satoru argued that it was definitely in his genes—claiming he had also been a sweetheart when he was a child, but you couldn't quite imagine him being remotely as reserved as your son.

That aside, the cause of this hilarious exchange did actually make you worry a bit.

"Look, I know it probably looks odd," Satoru gestured at the blindfold in his hand, but your little boy still didn't seem convinced by the pout he displayed. "But it will help you, I promise. If only you would—"

Oh, but it was almost like karma because besides his appearance, the other trait your son inherited from your husband was his strong sense of winning.

His face reddened from sheer indignation, and he once again screamed, "I don't want to! I'll just cover my eyes with—" he took a nearby napkin and pulled them over his eyes, "—this!"

Satoru sighed in annoyance, and you decided to jump in. Crouching down next to him, you gently pried the napkin from his hand.

"Papa just wants to help you, okay?" you reasoned, cupping his plump cheeks. Gods, he used to be this round thing in your and Satoru's arms and now he was already this big. "He uses it everyday and he has no problems, see?"

"But it doesn't look good..." Your son drooped his head in disappointment, and you could feel Satoru rolling his eyes beside you, evidently miffed at the thought of him being less than good-looking.

Parenting is challenging, especially when your husband still holds onto some of his childlike tendencies. So you decided to end the discussion here.

It was later at noon, while you were in the kitchen preparing lunch when you heard your son's scream and something crashing. Your heart was in your throat as you rushed to the backyard, only to see something that made your heart lurch even more.

Your sweet boy was wailing on the ground, clutching his head, and Satoru—

His expression was as horrified as yours if not more, as he ran and caught your son in his arms, pressing him tightly against his chest as if shielding him from the sun altogether. "Shit. Hey, hey—buddy, you okay?”

Satoru lifted him up and carried him inside. You were right beside him as he settled on the sofa, gently hushing your son, who was still shaking and had his eyes covered against his chest.

"M-My head..." your son whimpered, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks. "...h-hurts..."

"It's okay, it's okay..." he murmured, caressing the child's hair in a soothing manner, and it reminded you so much of what he would do to you in the early mornings. "I've got you now, nothing’s going to happen to you. Hang on a little longer, yeah?"

You felt warm tears threatening to well up in your eyes at the sight. It was heart-wrenching to see your son in such torment, and the way your husband was consoling him deeply touched you. It served as a poignant reminder of just how many years had passed from when Gojo Satoru was still that brat who used to mess with you during high school.

Soon, your little boy's breathing became even, and he went to sleep in Satoru's comforting embrace.

You looked at him while biting your lip, undiluted worry in your voice. "What should we do? He's been experiencing pain often lately..."

Satoru really wanted to wipe that expression from your face, but with his precious child clinging onto him for dear life, even he didn't have the heart to.

"Don't worry, I'll be with him," he assured, a plan already forming in his mind. "If he hates blindfolds that much, then I'll get him some pairs of glasses just like the ones I have—for kids. We'll start with that."

Bearing the weight of his clan's revered eyes was a heavy burden, and honestly, he would prefer it if none of his children had to inherit them. After all, he went through it all too as a child—the manifestation of the six eyes' powers marks the beginning of life as a sorcerer. The perilous world he was still trying to keep away from his son.

Nonetheless, he would be there for him every step of the way. It was what he vowed to himself on the day he was born. He wouldn’t let anything befall him—or you.

You had calmed down after hearing his plan, and as you gazed at your precious boy’s innocent face in his protective grip and the gentle pats he gave him, you suddenly found yourself in a mischievous mood once again.

"Heh, quite the doting papa, aren't you, Satoru?" you winked, a teasing smile on your face. You could have sworn his cheeks slightly flushed as he retorted:

"Hmph. He is my personal little body warmer, after all."

[getosbigballsack]

Ceo husband Gojo Satoru! X Stay at home wife reader-chan!

Random thought, but just imagine your husband Gojo kneeling before your while you are sitting on the bed, with your legs hoist up on his shoulder and his head between your thighs, having a taste of your pussy and ass before heading to work.

It wasn't unusual for you and your husband to have sex in the early morning. Besides, it's the best time to do it anyways, after all, you both have 3 beautiful kids, to tend for the rest of the day and most of the night.

But there is just something about today, having already gone two rounds, and now here he is standing in front of the mirror, watching as you straighten his tie around his neck, he could not help but to think, how beautiful you look standing there before him, dressed in nothing but his oversized button down shirt that did nothing to cover up your thighs.

So plump and beautifully decorated with his love marks, he grabbed your thighs, hoisted you up, and wrapped your legs around his waist. A small gasp escaped your lips, hand clinging to his crisp white shirt. "Satoru Baby, what are you doing?" He smirked, hands traveling from your thighs to grip your round globes, spreading your cheeks apart just a bit before squeezing.

"I just couldn't help but to think how beautiful you are right now and how I would love to eat your pussy before I head to work," he responded, slowly walking you both back into the bed room. He sat you on the bed, loosen his tie before settling before you on his knees with his hands on your thighs. "C'mon, open up and let me have a taste before I go to work."

"But, but..." you stuttered, cheeks burning from embarrassment as you stared down at your husband, on his knees ready to feast upon you. "You're already late!"

"And what's ten more minutes between your legs?" He asked, staring up at you with those wicked seductive eyes. "Dont keep your starving husband waiting. Open up pretty, I want to feed on that sweet nectar of yours. Open up for me love..." and he watched as your legs slowly parted, glistening and swollen pussy, still coated and dripping with his cum on display for his eyes to feast. "Thats a good girl, now keep quiet yeah, and let me eat."

Oh yeah did he eat, kissing your cunt as though he was kissing your lips, guiding your hips to his face until his nose is pressed into the fatty flesh and his tongue licking and teasing at your clit. He's humming, tasting himself and your sweet love dripping into his mouth.

Aaah yes, just what he wanted for the morning to fill his stomach, but he's greedy and he needs more, hoisting your legs on the bed and around his shoulders. His hand moving to grip and spread your ass yet again. He pulled away from your pussy to spit, only to be caught in a trance watching as your ass that he hadn't fucked in a while (he meant, ever since your six year old son was born) winked at him, not once, not twice but multiple as if it's begging to be licked and played with.

Fuck him, he spits, letting his wild thoughts, intrusive thoughts taking over. He removed one hand from your ass, to rub at your clit as he fucks your cunt with his tongue. Licking long stripes before slowly moving down until his tongue was playing with your winking hole.

You gasped and gripped his hair, haven't felt this feeling in a long while, you looked down and watch as your husband thumbed your clit and licked your ass. And he's humming too, tongue swirling and fiddling with your tight ring before plunging back into your cunt. That intense pressure build in your tummy, pussy and ass clenching feeling your orgasm fast approaching.

"Satoru I'm cumming." And that's all it took for him to wear your body and pussy out with his tongue and the next thing you know, your shaking, squeezing your husband's head between as you splash and wet his face. Fuck! Knowing that he may have to shower and change again before heading to work.

But he might just cancel and reschedule for the day, having tasted your ass, he's tempting to send the kids off yet again to their grandparents just so he could properly eat your ass, then your pussy before fucking both holes and watching as they formed the shape of his cock while dripping with his cum. Especially that ass of yours. Yeah not a bad idea at all.

[pedrospatch]

flutter

Jackson! Joel Miller x Pregnant! Female Reader

snapshots masterlist

summary: When you finally start to show, Joel has a tough time with it as the reality sinks in—he’s going to be a father again.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) PREGNANCY. established relationship. no mention of reader’s age, however in other works for this universe, it is implied she is younger than Joel, her specific age will never be stated so do with that what you will. brief descriptions of a pregnant woman’s changing body, brief mention of morning sickness, mention of breastfeeding (it only comes up in a conversation very briefly) these subjects can possibly be triggering, especially mentions of a changing body, so while i try to handle everything with the utmost care, i still ask that you proceed with caution. domesticity, reader enjoys taking care of her family, ellie is a little shit, grumpy joel, he’s sort of a dick at first? but only because he’s working through some feelings so let’s forgive him, okay?

word count: 3.5k

a/n: this is part of the snapshots universe, but it could absolutely be read as a standalone too. minimal editing, this has been sitting in my drafts and i did a quick edit during my lunch hour, so please excuse any mistakes.

“Shit.”

You almost can’t believe your own two eyes. Staring at your reflection in the large, oval shaped mirror hanging over the porcelain bathroom sink, your gaze widens in complete surprise. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, turning to the side. It takes your brain about a good minute or two to process, really process, the way that your belly strains against the thin, white cotton of your camisole. It had seemingly swollen overnight—because it hadn’t been this prominent the day before, had it?

Over the last few months, there’d been changes.

Some subtle and some not so subtle.

“Ellie! Stop fucking staring at them,” you’d scolded the teenager late one evening during yours and hers weekly game night. For as hard as you tried focusing on what move you should make next, it was hard to concentrate on the chessboard in front of you when you could feel the way her eyes were fixed on your breasts. “I mean it! Quit staring at my boobs, you little shit.”

She held up her hands, her mouth full of popcorn.

“Hey, in my defense, they’re just fucking there, man. If anything, they’re fucking staring at me, okay?”

During your chess rematch the following week, you had accidentally knocked one of your pawn pieces off of the table. When you’d stood up and bent over to pick it up, she had made the observation that your butt seemed to have gotten a little bigger too.

“Bet Joel’s liking these changes,” Ellie had smirked. “It sure as hell explains why the headboard’s been banging against the wall more than usual lately.”

You threw the pawn at her, smiling in satisfaction when it bounced off her forehead and landed into her glass of lemonade.

One part of your body, however, hadn’t changed.

Not until now.

“Hon, trust me, you have nothing to be worried about,” Maria had assured you with confidence when you had brought up your concerns about your stomach. “Every woman, and every pregnancy, is different. I didn’t start showing until I was around six months, remember?”

“I guess you’re right.” You’d been around four months, then. “Doesn’t help that I haven’t felt the baby move.”

“You will,” Maria had promised. “Just be patient”

Biting your lip, you place a hand on your belly.

It’s always been one of the softer parts of you, but now, it’s firmed into a perfect, round bump.

“Maybe soon I’ll feel you move,” you murmur, giving it a gentle pat. You tug the lace hem of your camisole down as far as it can go and then pull at the elastic waistband of your blue, terry cloth shorts.

Shutting off the lights in the bathroom, you slip out into the bedroom where you find that Joel’s still tangled up in the sheets, fast asleep. He had been assigned to the afternoon patrol route today—normally an early riser, if he was still snoozing, it meant that he really needed the rest. Deciding it was best to let him keep sleeping for a little while longer, you quietly tiptoe out of your shared bedroom and head downstairs into the kitchen.

After making yourself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, and one for the kid as well, you prepare the coffee maker for Joel. You spoon dark roast grounds into the filter and set the timer for the coffee to start brewing in thirty minutes.

He should be up by then, you think, pulling a basket of eggs out of the refrigerator.

You’re starting to get used to this. Domesticity.

Despite your protests, Maria had made the decision to pull you off patrol that same afternoon you had shared the news of your pregnancy. “I’m putting you on leave,” she’d told you. “Effective immediately. I don’t want to see you outside of these walls. Got it?”

“That’s not fair, Maria. You were out on patrol until—”

One stern glare from her had shut you right up.

“Fine.”

Sure, you missed it and looked forward to the day when you’d be able to get back into the saddle with your rifle in hand, but this way of life had grown on you. Certainly a lot more than you thought it would.

You enjoyed taking care of the house. Packing Ellie her lunch for school and checking her homework. Having a nice a meal on the table for the three of you to enjoy in the comfort of your own home instead of having to go down to the crowded mess hall for supper because you and Joel were both always much, much too tired after a long day out on patrol to bother with cooking.

With the baby due to arrive in the winter, looking after your little family had become your purpose, and you did not mind it one bit.

As strips of bacon sizzle in one pan on the gas powered stove, you crack a couple of eggs into another, knowing the kid is already on her way downstairs. You can hear the sound of her old, tattered low top sneakers that you have been trying to throw away for almost a year now squeaking on the kitchen tiles just as you finish plating her breakfast.

“Morning!” Ellie pipes, the loud plop of her backpack into a chair prompting you to turn around. “What’s for brea—whoa! Holy shit!” Her brown eyes widen in shock when she sees you and her jaw drops. “Dude.”

“Ellie,” you say her name warningly as you walk over to the table. “Don’t.”

“You’re bigger!”

With a playful glare, you set her plate down, along with her glass of orange juice. “Thanks a lot, you little jerk.” You feign offense. “You’re making your own eggs from now on.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Ellie’s cheeks flush a shade of red and she squirms, sputtering apologetically, “I swear, I don’t mean it like that at all. It’s just, your stomach, it didn’t—you didn’t look like this last night, you know?”

She’s fucking lucky that your raging hormones decided to take the morning off duty.

“You look different. I mean, you look great—”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and eat.”

“Deal.”

She shoots you a sheepish grin and sits down, scarfing down her food in her usual manner. 

“You get your fractions homework done?”

“Yeah.” Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “Took me forever. I was up until fucking midnight.”

Amused, you offer, “Want me to check your work?”

“Sure.”

As Ellie inhales the rest of her breakfast, you pull out a green, single subject notebook from her backpack and look over her homework for miscalculations.

“So, uh, how are you feeling?” she asks after a minute.

“I’m feeling alright. I think the morning sickness finally stopped, so can’t complain.” Shrugging, you close the notebook and stick it into her backpack. “You did good, kid. Only got two problems wrong.”

“Man, I really wish we knew whether it’s a boy or girl,” Ellie mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “What do you want to have, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Ellie,” you answer, honestly. Clocking the skepticism on her face, you laugh and say, “It’s true. As long as the baby’s healthy, that’s all I care about.” And you mean it. As an expectant mother in the post outbreak world where medicine is scarce, supplies are limited, and the closest thing you have to a hospital is the town’s old clinic, the only thing you can hope for is the smooth, safe delivery of a healthy child.

Before she can say anything, you both catch the sound of Joel’s heavy boots as he descends the staircase.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, has Joel seen you yet?”

Grimacing, you shake your head. “No.”

“Well, I don’t wanna be here for all that awkward,” Ellie says, chugging the rest of her orange juice. She stands up and snatches up her backpack, along with her lunch bag, which you’d packed for her earlier that morning. Just as she’s about to whirl around on the heel of her sneaker and make a run for the front door, she pauses, watching as you make your way back over to the stove to light another flame. “Unless you want me to be?”

“I’ll be fine, Ellie,” you assure her. “Go on, get to school. Maybe you’ll be on time to class for once.”

“If you say so.” She wishes you luck and then bolts out of the kitchen, throwing a quick goodbye at Joel on the way out. “See ya later, old man!”

Nervously, you turn around and start cracking another two eggs into the pan. There’s no telling how he’s going to react.

Joel’s been fairly supportive since you’d found out you were pregnant, considering how unplanned it was. But you know him like the back of your own hand, and you know, despite the numerous times he’s denied it, that it has been weighing heavily on him. Each time you’d try to sit down to talk to him about it, he would brush you off and insist he was fine. But he wasn’t fine.

And you wish he would spit it out and tell you why.

In your periphery, you notice the stained glass butterfly he had hung in front of the window above the sink, the ornament catching and refracting the sunlight. Flecks of color dance across the walls in captivating patterns, brightening the space. You think of the sweet little girl he’d hung it for, the little girl he rarely talks about, that he keeps tucked away safely in his memory.

You bite back a small sigh.

By now, you’ve learned not to push him. Especially not about what he was feeling. He would tell you when he was ready.

“Who the hell lit a fire under her ass this mornin’?” Joel asks gruffly as he walks into the kitchen. “She ain’t ever this fuckin’ eager to go to school.”

“Not sure,” you reply in the most nonchalant tone you can muster as you use a spatula to scramble the eggs. Transferring them onto a plate, you add three strips of bacon, and then pour his coffee. “I have your breakfast ready, Joel. Have a seat.”

You hear a chair scrape against the tile.

“I keep tellin’ you I can make my own breakfast, darlin’.”

“And I keep telling you I don’t mind making it for you,” you quip, and you hear him grumble something under his breath.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath through your nose, you take the plate of eggs and bacon in one hand, and his cup of coffee in the other. Your fingers grasp the handle of his ceramic, owl mug in a near death grip. You exhale slowly, and then turn around to face him.

He sees your swollen middle and stiffens in his chair. 

The tension is instantaneous. Palpable.

Uncomfortable.

Awkwardly, you shift from one foot to the other.

“Your belly,” Joel murmurs, a visible tick in his jaw as his gaze drags over your midsection. “S’bigger.”

“Yeah. It is. Guess I’m going to have to start trading for maternity clothes soon,” you remark, shuffling over to the table. Setting down the plate and mug of coffee in front of him, you take a seat across the table. Your eyes try desperately to meet his, but they refuse. There’s no way for you to decipher what he’s thinking. You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Can you please say something?” 

He lightly clears his throat. “I’ll take you to Main Street on Saturday,” he tells you, picking up his mug. “I’ve got the day off from patrol. I’ll, uh, pick through some of my own things and see what I don’t need so we can make a trade for some clothes.” He pauses, then offers quietly, “In the meantime, you can wear my shirts. They might be more comfortable for you.”

You flash him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Joel.”

Sipping his coffee, he continues to avoid your gaze.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

Your smile falters.

It’s the middle of August.

The afternoon heat is sweltering. Unforgiving.

“Jesus, it’s a fuckin’ scorcher,” Tommy sighs, glancing over towards the lake where his mare, Maxine, is taking a drink beside his brother’s stallion, Phoenix. His raven curls are damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Hotter than the devil’s fuckin’ balls out here, ain’t it?”

He’s met with silence.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees Joel leaning against a tree, his rifle in hand as he stares at the Grand Tetons in the distance almost like he’s in a trance. “Joel?”

Blinking furiously, Joel shakes his head. “Sorry, you say somethin’ to me just now?” He asks in a daze, pushing away from the lodgepole pine. “We headin’ out?”

“You’ve been actin’ real strange all afternoon,” Tommy observes, walking towards him with his own gun slung over his shoulder. “Either the heat is startin’ to get to you, or you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, big brother.”

Joel hesitates. His dark eyes flit to the other side of the lake where the other members of their afternoon patrol group are refilling their canteens with water.

“S’alright,” his younger brother says. “Don’t worry ‘bout them. Can’t hear us.”

Joel’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “She popped.”

“Huh?”

“Her belly finally popped. She’s showin’ now.”

Amused, Tommy lightly shakes his head. “Y’shouldn’t be so surprised, Joel. Was ‘bout time,” he remarks with a shrug. “What is she—like six months along now?”

“She’ll be six months in a couple weeks.” Joel wipes the perspiration off his brow with the back of his hand and sighs once more. “Look, I ain’t stupid, Tommy. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it still caught me by surprise. When I saw her, it became real for me. She’s got my kid in there. I’m gonna be a dad again.”

“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Shitless,” Joel confesses, feeling his chest tighten. 

“What are you afraid of?”

Joel almost laughs.

He doesn’t know where to start.

He’s afraid of everything.

“All of it, Tommy. I’m afraid for her, havin’ to give birth with no medicine,” he tells him, his voice breaking. “I’m afraid I won’t remember what to do with a newborn or that I won’t know how to help her durin’ those first few months—”

“This ain’t your first rodeo,” Tommy reminds him. “You did it once, and you did just fine, Joel.”

“That was over three fuckin’ decades ago. And it was a different world. If Sarah—” He stops, taking a second to catch his breath. The image of his daughter’s little face flashing in his mind feels like a violent punch to the gut. Even after all this time, it still knocks all of the wind out of his lungs. “When her mom had trouble breastfeedin’ her, I could head to the grocery store and buy her baby formula. If she got a real bad fever, I could load her up in the truck and drive her to the emergency room.” He glances down at his broken watch. “Besides, I was a lot younger, then. And I wasn’t half fuckin’ deaf like I am now. When Sarah would wake up cryin’ in the middle of the night because she needed a diaper change, I’d hear her. What if I can’t hear my own kid cryin’?”

“Joel—”

“I’m in my fifties. What if I can’t keep up because I’m too fuckin’ old?”

Tommy reaches out, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Brother, I need you to take a fuckin’ breath,” he says, chuckling softly. “You’re puttin’ the weight of the world of your shoulders right now—you need to put some of it down. Look, we might not have everythin’ we used to before the world ended, but we make do with what we do have. Considerin’ just how many growin’ families we have and how many little ones we’ve got runnin’ around our town, I’d say it’s workin’ out pretty fuckin well.” He gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And as far as your ability to be a good dad, you’ve still got it, Joel. You know what to do, and so does she. I’ve seen her in action with my little boy, and it seems like she’s already got those maternal instincts, y’know?”

“Yeah, she does,” Joels agrees quietly, thinking of how you had stepped up to help him care for Ellie.

“Trust me, between the two of you, it’ll be alright.”

He peers at him. “You really believe I still got it in me?”

“I do.” Tommy smiles. “You never stopped knowin’ how to be a father, Joel. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Their patrol shift extends into the evening, turning into a double, and it’s late when he gets home. 

“What the hell are you still doin’ up?” Joel asks when he finds Ellie sitting at the kitchen table, cursing to herself as she flips through the stale, yellowing pages of an old life science text book.

“What does it fucking look like, man?”

“Shouldn’t have waited until the last minute, kiddo—”

Ellie holds up a hand and cuts him off.

“Save the lecture for another time, dude. I’m busy.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Finish up and get to bed. S’late.”

Without waiting for some smartass response, he turns on the heel of his boot and then heads upstairs to your shared bedroom. He flips on the lights only to find that you’re already in bed, fast asleep, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. He toes off his boots and leaves them by the door, being as quiet as he possibly can as he rummages through his top drawer for some clean boxers to sleep in.

He slips into the bathroom where he takes a quick, hot shower, scrubbing off that day’s sweat, dirt, and grime. After he’s dressed and his sopping wet, salt and pepper curls are haphazardly towel dried, Joel walks back out into the bedroom where he switches off the lights and climbs into bed next to you.

He lays on his side and he’s just about to close his eyes when he feels a light shift beside him. You roll over and curl into him, your belly pressing up against his curve of his spine.

He stiffens, freezing as if someone had just placed the barrel of their pistol against his back, their finger over the trigger.

Christ, get a damn grip, he thinks silently to himself.

Joel thinks about that morning in the kitchen.

He knows his reaction had hurt you. Or rather, his lack of a reaction. His shitty ways of coping aren’t your fault, and his struggle to come to terms with your pregnancy sure as hell isn’t your fault, either. He owed it to you to try harder to be the man you needed.

The man you both needed.

Joel’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt when he feels a soft flutter against his middle of his back, the spot right where your tummy is nestled—did the baby just move?

He lies still, waiting to see if he feels it again, and when he doesn’t, he rolls over to face you, causing you to stir.

“Joel?” you mumble his name, sleepily. “What time—?”

“Shh,” Joel soothes, pulling you into his bare chest. He kisses your temple. “S’okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

Within seconds, you’re asleep again, snuggled into him and snoring softly.

Lifting a hand, he hesitates, then rests it on your belly.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until the minutes turn into hours.

Until dawn’s light filters in through the lace curtains. 

Until he finally feels that little flutter again.

He feels it against the palm of his hand. Faint, nothing more than a brief whisper against his skin, but there is no mistaking it.

He’d just felt the baby’s movement.

There’s a sudden shift.

Tense muscles that had been painfully wound up since the moment you’d mentioned to him your period was a week late back in the spring loosen slightly—the breath he had been holding since he’d picked up that positive pregnancy test from the bathroom counter finally falls from his lips, fanning over yours.

His fears, his worries, his uncertainties about what lies ahead, they’re all still there, of course, but he finds they are now accompanied by a glimmer of hope, a sliver of optimism that maybe, just maybe, Joel doesn’t have to be as afraid as he is.

Joel’s eyes glaze over your face, warmth radiating in his chest when you breathe a little a sigh of content in your sleep as he gently rubs your stomach through his shirt.

With his hand still splayed over your belly, he closes his eyes and begins to drift off, falling into the most decent sleep he’s had in the last few months.

Maybe his brother’s right.

Maybe he will be just fine.

divider credit to @saradika 🤍

[mikashisus]

Maybe One Day

SYNOPSIS: kinich was sure about his feelings for you, and he was aware of the ones you harbored for him. yet, there’s one thing stopping him from telling you…

PAIRING: kinich x gn!reader

warnings: slight angst, subtle die jokes

wc: 1.6k

notes: mostly fluff, but u guys know me by now, i can’t ever write anything without angst in it. played thru a bit of the 5.0 quest (NO SPOILERS GUYS!!!!) and i actually love kinich sm. another one of those quiet but gentle characters (๑>◡<๑) reminds me a bit of xiao - and that’s not bc of the color scheme lol. anyw enjoy!

part 2!

Pen scratched loudly against paper as you eagerly jotted down more notes in your journal.

Early mornings high in the canopy of trees were serene and chilly. It was still a long while until the sun would rise, and when it did, you'd return to the villa the locals offered you and continue your work inside.

The sweltering heat of Natlan was nothing to scoff at. You've been to Sumeru before, where there was hot weather all year round. Yet, just when you had gotten used to the heat, the research for your thesis demanded you to go somewhere even hotter: Natlan.

You couldn't handle hot weather. Whenever the weather reached just above what one could describe as 'warm,' you felt like you were going to melt into a puddle on the ground. That's why you knocked out all of your research in the early morning, when it was cooler, and retired to your lodging after the sun rose so you could avoid a potential heatstroke.

Already, you began to feel a shift in temperature as dim light peered over the horizon. It was easy to see the sunrise from here, perched in this gargantuan tree.

It was peaceful up here, and it gave you a wonderful view of the whole of Natlan. You could see King Deshret's Mausoleum from this height, too, and you silently thanked yourself for not ever being interested in his ancient technology.

If you had to stay in the desert for a prolonged period of time, you would’ve found a hole to crawl in and never crawl back out.

On the way to Natlan six months ago, your escort told you that the only way to get there was through the desert. He knew of your great distaste for hot weather, and so he was fully prepared to hear you whine and throw a tantrum over the ordeal. However, instead, all you did was pout and tell him to get a move on and "get this over with."

A cramp formed in your hand, and you had to pause your note taking.

As you massaged your hand, you admired the first signs of light creeping over the horizon and allowed yourself to get lost in the sounds around you: Water rushing from the nearby waterfall, the chirping of birds, the rustling of foliage, and the bellowing of Yumkasaurs. You could faintly hear the whispers of the locals as they exited their houses, though their conversations were incoherent from this distance.

Although the weather was atrocious, you absolutely adored the sights and the sounds of Natlan. It felt lively and bright.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your journal. Five more paragraphs to go before you could rest for today.

"I was told you've been up here for quite a while," a soft voice interrupted, causing you to jump, "didn't I tell you to take more breaks, Northerner?"

Your lantern knocked over, and you quickly reached forward, catching it before it could fall victim to its inevitable demise in the valley below. You were incredibly high up. You could barely see the ground from here, much less where the waterfall beneath you ended.

Breathing a sigh of relief, you placed the lantern back at your side and turned to your visitor, who wore an amusing smirk on his face.

"And didn't I tell you not to sneak up on me like that, Kinich?"

The boy in question didn't answer you. Silently, he joined you at your side, and that was when you spotted the bowl of grainfruits he held in his hand. He offered it to you.

"Breaks are necessary, you know. Especially when working on research papers."

You took a bite out of one of the fruits and sighed. "I'm well aware. But I came here solely for my thesis, not for a vacation. Besides, if I was given a vacation, I probably would've chosen to go—“

"'Home'?" He finished. You nodded.

"Yeah. I would've gone home." Another sigh, longer this time, left your lips.

"You miss Mondstadt, then?" He asked, taking a bite out of a grainfruit and setting the bowl between you two.

"You bet I do!" you exclaimed, flipping back to the first page of your journal. Notes from your entire family occupied the page. You gently ran your fingers over them.

“Before I left Dornman Port, my family gave me this journal and told me to do great things in Sumeru. They even wrote me notes as a reminder to 'keep pushing when times get tough.’”

Your family knew you too well. They knew you were someone who pushed themselves way too hard— an overachiever.

Whenever you felt burnt out, you read their notes, and it gave you the motivation to keep going. To keep achieving great things. To seek the answer to what ‘freedom’ truly meant to you through your experiences.

Kinich was silent for a few moments. He was someone who preferred silence, and oddly enough, you were too. Though, it hadn't seemed that way when the two of you first met.

When you first met, you had just arrived in the settlement belonging to the Scions of the Canopy, and you were just about ready to collapse onto the ground because of heat exhaustion.

Thankfully, you were aided by not only Kinich— who happened to be nearby —but also a few others from his tribe. When you recovered, you complained to the high heavens about the heat, and Kinich was very close to dragging you up Teticpac Peak just to push you off. He already heard enough whining from Ajaw, he didn't need to hear more from a foreigner who never once stepped foot in Natlan.

He was fully prepared to ignore you from that day forward, only to become intrigued when he got a glimpse of your research.

Later, he was surprised to find out you were actually from Mondstadt, the Crown of the North. Not only that, but you were from the far, far north reaches of Mondstadt— Dornman Port —nearing the border of Snezhnaya; And suddenly, all your complaining about the weather made sense.

Although the two of you were mostly polar opposites, you became fast friends, and Kinich's favorite way to say hello was to sneak up on you when you least expected him to.

His interest in you eventually became noticeable to Ajaw, and as soon as that little yellow and green bastard pointed it out one night, Kinich knew he had to lock him away whenever you were near.

He couldn't risk the chances of Ajaw blurting it out in front of you.

He wanted to believe you felt the same way. After all, you would've gotten tired of him by now if you didn’t. That, or you might've stayed away from him simply because he looked a little intimidating. Either way, he was glad you stuck around.

He ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him you'd one day have to leave.

As soon as you wrapped up your research in Natlan, you'd have to return to Sumeru's Akademiya and continue on with your life. Maybe you'd even take a trip back home to Mondstadt to see your family and possibly even attend a festival.

He remembered hearing you talk about one of them, a seemingly important one. It was one that he couldn't pronounce for the life of him, but he loved hearing you say it because he liked hearing you speak in Mondstadt's language.

He wondered what a Statue of the Seven even looked like in Mondstadt. He had never seen any pictures of one, not even a picture of what Mondstadt's Archon looked like. From rumors, he heard the Anemo Archon was completely absent from Mondstadt, and you somewhat confirmed those rumors.

"I wouldn't say Lord Barbatos is completely absent," you said once when he asked, "we believe the wind in Mondstadt is Lord Barbatos himself. So with that logic, he's still with us, just not physically like other Archons."

You sighed softly, finishing off the last grainfruit in the bowl. "Thanks Kinich."

Sending him one of your dazzling smiles that always made his heart beat a little faster, you scooted closer to him and bumped his shoulder with your own.

He raised a brow in confusion. "What for?"

"Everything, I think…” You answered. “For helping me when I first arrived here, for always looking out for me... I'm really thankful."

He was silent, though you knew his silence was not him being dismissive. He was either pondering, or he just didn't know what to say in response.

Eventually, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you close. The sudden action made you tense up before you relaxed against him and rested your head on his shoulder.

The sun was rising over the horizon now, and you could deal with the rise in temperature for a while if it meant you got to stay like this with him.

"Don't thank me for anything." He said finally, under his breath.

Maybe one day, he'd tell you of his feelings, because now he was sure of how you felt towards him. But today was not that day.

Time was counting down to the day you had to leave, and he knew he wasn't ready for you to go so soon. Six months had come and gone in a flash.

It wasn't goodbye for good, as you swore you'd come back to Natlan the next time you had the chance— whether it be for research or for a much needed vacation. Yet, a goodbye, regardless of if it was a "see you later" or a proper "goodbye," it still hurt all the same.

Maybe one day, when the war in Natlan came to a close, you could show Kinich around your homeland, just as he did with you. But until that day came, Kinich would wait.

As long as it took. "As long as the wind blows," like you'd often say.

notes: i have a discord server! join if u’d like to chill and hangout! it’s fun, i promise :))

© 2024 mikashisus. do not plagiarize, copy, repost, feed to ai, or translate my works to any other platforms.

[themagnustournament]

Round One Part Six - Match 48

So true bestie, mental illness is the Spiral. Except OCD that one's Web. I do love a good pun title though.

MAG 177 - Wonderland | Spotify - Acast - YT | Wiki | Transcript

An examination of mental health care. Audio recorded by the Archivist, in situ.

MAG 189 - Peers | Spotify - Acast - YT | Wiki | Transcript

Considerations of governmental oversight. Recorded by The Archivist in Situ.

[streetlamp-amber]

first kicks

batfamily x batmom!reader

word count: 1.9k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: family fluff, pregnancy NOTES: i wanted to write more batfam fluff this time with jason included. very sorry if jason is ooc, most of my knowledge of him comes from fics lol

Rainy Sunday afternoons at Wayne Manor were usually spent with you and your sons in the living room, occupying the big U-shaped sectional sofa. Sometimes Bruce would join you three, resting his feet on the coffee table as he worked on his laptop. Today was one of those days.

You were helping Dick do some research on the internet for a science school project that was due next week while Jason laid on his stomach on the other side of the couch, reading a Where’s Waldo? book by himself. Your husband sat in the other corner of the couch, doing some research on the latest villain terrorising Gotham. You didn’t mind if the work he was doing was for Batman, as long as he spent some time with the family outside of the cave, you were satisfied. Especially since the Wayne clan was about to expand in a little more than four months. Plus, with your belly growing bigger as the weeks went by, it was becoming harder for you to do some tasks around the house. Tasks that you didn’t want to ask Alfred for help with since it was your husband’s job to be at your beck and call through the pregnancy. Bruce obviously didn’t mind and loved helping you, he just sometimes tended to get lost in his Batman work for long periods of time.

The television was playing in the background, a football game between two teams that you didn’t really care about was taking place but you didn’t mind. You couldn’t work well without some sort of background noise and this was doing the job.

”So Dick, have you chosen which natural disaster to base your research project on?” Bruce asked your eldest while closing his laptop and joining him on his other side, making the twelve year old squished between his parents.

”We’ve narrowed it down to three: the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and Hurricane Katrina,” Dick answered, clicking on different tabs of each of the natural disasters as he named them. “I want to do my research on a popular one so I can easily find all the information I need.”

”Smart, isn’t he?” You smirked at Bruce as you mindlessly threaded your fingers in Dick’s dark hair who continued scrolling on the internet.

“Never thought otherwise,” your husband said, mirroring your grin. “Jay, have you found all the Waldos yet?” He leaned forward to ask Jason.

“I’m almost done,” the six year old easily dismissed Bruce, not even bothering to tear his eyes away from the pages.

“It’s best not to bother him when he’s searching for Waldo,” you informed your husband in a low volume.

Bruce nodded his head in understanding and redirected his attention back on Dick. “So, how are you gonna make your choice, chum? You could write them down on three pieces of paper and do a draw,” he suggested, leaning his arm on the back of the couch behind Dick, his fingers playing with the neck of your tshirt.

“Dad, I don’t need to write it down on some paper,” Dick sighed, a little annoyed. “You can do that on the internet now.”

“You can?” Bruce asked, surprised. Your husband was really tech savvy when it came down to work related to Batman, but silly, random stuff like a drawing roulette was not part of his internet knowledge.

You leaned your head on your left hand that was propped on the back of the couch and soothingly rubbed your round belly with the other. You watched with a soft smile Dick showing Bruce how to generate a random picking wheel to spin on the internet. Moments like these were the ones you cherished the most, domesticity wasn’t always the norm around here when you had two vigilantes living under your roof so you always tried to savour them whenever they happened.

The calmness in you was interrupted when you felt movement under your right hand.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, eyes round like saucers as you looked down at your bump and raised up the hem of your shirt to make sure what you felt was right.

“What?” Bruce immediately turned his attention to you. “What is it? Is something wrong? Are you alright?”

“I think the baby just kicked,”you said, raising your head to meet his eyes.

“The baby just kicked?” He repeated in disbelief.

You shook your head ‘yes’ just as you felt more movement. “The baby kicked again.”

Bruce rapidly stood up to sit by your side while Dick discarded his laptop before placing a hand on your belly and Jason left his book to climb on your husband’s lap to be closer to you. All had a hand on your stomach, staring at it expectantly, waiting for another kick.

“I don’t know if the baby’s gonna kick again,” you told them.

“Well that’s just not fair,” Jason whined.

“We just need to be patient,” Bruce said. “I’m sure the baby will do it again.”

And sure enough he was right. 

“Oh my God! I felt it! I felt the baby kick!” Dick exclaimed, though he kept the volume of his voice to a low level as if he would scare the baby away if he screamed.

“I wanna feel it too!” Jason cried.

“Here Jay, put your hand there,” you told your youngest as you gently grabbed his wrist and moved his hand to a different area of your belly, closer to Dick’s hand.

“Maybe if we keep talking, the baby will kick again,” Dick suggested.

“That’s true, babies can hear us from inside the mother’s belly,” Bruce agreed with him.

“They can?” Jason looked at you quizzically.

You chuckled at his confused face as you brushed his hair away from his forehead. “Yeah they can, it’s not completely soundproof in there,” you answered him.

“That’s why Dad is always talking to your belly?” Dick asked.

You fully laughed at this. “Yes, that’s why Dad talks to the belly. You can too if you wanna.”

“We can?” Dick perked up then leaned closer to your bump. “Hi baby, I’m Dick. Your big brother,” he said.

Jason also leaned forward. “And I’m Jason, I’m also gonna be your big brother.”

“Yeah but I’m the big big brother, I’m the oldest,” Dick argued.

“But I’m gonna be a big brother too!”

“Boys,” Bruce intervened. “No arguing around your mother. The baby will hear enough of that when it joins our lives, let it have its peace while it’s in the womb.”

A series of kicks started at that moment, making Dick and Jason gasp in surprise at the movements they felt under their hands. Bruce turned to you and the two of you shared a look full of love.

“That’s our baby,” he said to you, almost in a whisper, while Dick and Jason continued marvelling at the fact they could feel their sibling.

“That's our baby,” you repeated in confirmation. Nothing could've erased the smiles on both of your lips.

“I love you,” Bruce said against your forehead before leaving a soft kiss there and pulling away to share a short peck on the lips with you.

“Ew! Gross!” Jason interrupted your moment. Your sons weren’t the biggest fans of you and Bruce’s displays of affection for each other.

You giggled at the boys’ antics but still took a second to say “I love you” back to your husband.

“Someone should get Alfred so we can share this moment with him,” you suggested to the kids.

“Not it!”

“Not it!”

Jason and Dick quickly shouted, the former being the fastest to say it.

Dick groaned before he stood up from the couch and jogged out of the living room. The faster he would find Alfred, the faster he would be back next to you. “Alfred! The baby is kicking for the first time!” Dick called through the manor for your butler.

“He knows he doesn’t need to scream, right?” Bruce asked you. “Alfred can hear the boys break something all the way from the other side of the house.”

“Oh, let him be. He’s just very excited about the baby kicking,” you lightly reprimanded him with the corner of your mouth pulling up in a smirk.

You detached your gaze from your husband down to Jason who now had both of his small hands on your belly, his mouth in the shape of an ‘O’ and his eyes round with wonder in them.

“This is so cool,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Looks like you’re gonna have some competition Jay, that baby sure is kicking a lot,” Bruce jokingly commented as the kicking didn’t stop.

You chuckled as you remembered all the times you’d stop by the gym room to find Jason relentlessly kicking at Bruce’s punching bag. For a six year old, he already had so much anger pent up inside his little body and it worried you sometimes. But ever since Bruce brought him back to the Manor, Jay had been getting better. The amount of vases thrown at the wall had drastically decreased since then, both to yours and Alfred’s reliefs, and he instead would run to the gym room and let out his anger on the punching bag when needed.

“I can’t wait to play fight with you,” Jason whispered loudly to your belly with a smile.

“No,” you immediately said.

“Best you stick to play fighting with Dick for a couple more years, buddy,” Bruce told your son.

Jason pouted. “But he's always pulling some acrobatic shit–”

“Language!” You scolded him.

“But Ma! Dad and Dick say it all the time!” Jason cried out defensively. “That’s not fair,” he retracted his hands from your belly to cross his arms over his chest.

“Well Dad and Dick, and you too apparently, will not be saying words like that around the baby,” you warned. “Capiche?”

“Capiche,” Jason mumbled.

“Capiche?” You repeated, now glaring at your husband.

“Hey, I’ve really been refraining on the bad words ever since Dick joined us,” Bruce argued but you raised your eyebrows in a way that said this wasn’t what you wanted to hear. “Capiche,” Bruce sighed out, knowing he wasn't going to win this fight.

“Master Dick, slow down a little. There’s no need for running,” you heard Alfred’s voice approaching down the hall.

“But Alfred, the baby is kicking!” Dick reiterated.

Your oldest ran in the living room, his hand firmly holding Alfred’s who tried to keep up behind him.

“I heard you the first ten times, Master Dick, the baby will still be there no matter how fast we get there,” Alfred argued.

“Yeah but it might stop kicking,” Dick said and the two sat on the couch to your unoccupied left.

“Don’t worry chum, the baby’s still kicking,” Bruce told him while looking fondly at your belly.

“Please Alfred, feel the baby,” you said to your butler with an inviting smile, grabbing his hand that rested on his knee and gently squeezing it. “We want you to be part of this moment too.”

Alfred’s hand joined the others on your bump and the old man smiled at you and Bruce as he felt the tiny bumps moving around under your skin. “This is sensational.”

“Isn’t it?” You smiled back at him, content to have everyone you wanted to share your baby’s first kicks with.

Your little family of five (soon-to-be six) remained on the couch until the baby grew tired and stopped kicking, much to Dick and Jason’s dismay. Alfred went back to his tasks, the boys to their laptop and book, and Bruce wrapped his arm around your shoulder as you cuddled next to him, watching over your children and just enjoying the normalcy of this Sunday afternoon.

Domesticity used to be rare at the Wayne Manor, but not anymore. And you, for one, were very happy about it.

[strawberrymochin]

The Dick Analysis

A slight analysis on jjk men's dick would look and feel like....| Gojo satoru; Geto suguru; Kento nanami; Ryomen sukuna; Toji fushiguro |

Gojo satoru

Pretty pink tip. Gojo's body lacks melanin, so his huge dick will be the prettiest colour of pink you've ever seen. When not aroused it would soft and jiggly making you want to play with it as a stress reliever, however the moment your hand comes in contact with his dick, it would spring back to life in an instant. Rock hard I mean (What do you expect you tell gojo you wanna play with his dingle dangle and he won't be horny to get a boner). The moment he gets hard he will get all whiney wanting to fuck you right now. You will have to give in anyway.

His glans(head) meets your dripping cut at first, coating his tip with your slick as his precum mixes with yours. It's his most sensitive part and he loves it when you lick it or your clitoris comes in contact with it. His dick would be pretty big, about six inches which when gets aroused can gain an extra length of 2 inches which is too big for you and it's always too big for you to fit. Thus there are many sex positions gojo refuses to try since it might hurt you. No matter what position every single thrust gets your eye rollin' till ya see infinite void. Lmao.

Geto suguru

Huge and thick. His cock would have an amazing girth that would strech you so well till you're sure that it's gonna be the death of you. His cock would be slight tanned as of his honey skin tone (before kenjaku took his body lol). His shaft would be more thick than its tip. Giving him a blowjob would be really hard because of how thick he is and no matter how carefully you take him totally avoiding teeth would be impossible. He would let out a soft gasp and creasing his brows as his head falls back whenever your teeth grazes his shaft accidentally. You would pull back immediately and mutter apologies which he shuts immediately tangling his fingers into your hair shoving it back into your warm mouth. He wouldn't say it directly but he loves it when you do so, the sudden strike of pain along with the gush of pleasure as you suck him gets him high and his balls tight.

Normally geto's dick would be of good 5 inches and when hard it might elongated to 6.5 inches. You love when he lets you ride his big fat cock and rest your head on his tiddies. He stretches you so good that once he pulls out you get overwhelmed with emptiness and beg him to stuff it in for the rest of the night.

Kento nanami

Talking about the dilf his baby corn would be the biggest and fattest thing you've ever taken. Bruh his cock his the perfect combination of length and width. Every thrust would drive you to the edge only for you to want more. You feel so full when he drowns himself into you. Kento's hardness can last upto hours even after cumming multiple times thus forget you're getting any sleep the entire night. Something he absolutely loves is to slap his dick on your face while cumming. At first it was your idea since you wanted to try out something new (basically you were horny) and how can nanami come to refuse you his (not so) innocent pretty angel. This became his new kink and slapping your face, messing your flushed cheeks with his cum drove him over the edge to go one more round. Normally he doesn't like overtime but if it's you then he can go over hours.

His cock would be of 6 inches and can elongate upto 7 when hard. His width is similar to geto's. He's such a sweetheart that he would let you stack doughnuts, tie a ribbon, dip it in chocolate, add sprinkles to the top and suck it. He would let you do anything (bruh's whipped for you).

Ryomen sukuna

Hail to sukuna sama and his dick sama. First thing's first sukuna (true form) has two dicks— adorned with similar twin striped tattoos along with a set of huge balls. His dick is huge— fucking huge. He would double penetrate you, use you like a cum dump whore without any care. He's the type to make it fit even if it won't. Every sex session with him will continue till hours and such a tease he is, he would deprive you of your high, not letting you cum till your cunt and asshole reaches the bottom of his shaft. Your legs would feel like jelly as you would be drooling while he pounds into you. Honestly I think you would pass out due to the sheer intensity of his thrusts as he fucks your cunt and asshole at the same time. I can also imagine him having anal with you while he grinds his upper dick on your pussy, sometimes sliding the tip inside only to see you whine with pleasure and withdraw it immediately to stop you from cumming. He loves to edge you.

Sukuna's dick samas would be huge as mentioned before. His balls would be so pretty and he would make you lick it after you squirt on it. Forget about the aroused size....aroused or not his length and size is enough to make you see death's doors. Have fun pretty concubine.

Toji fushiguro

Yeah dilfushiguro is it? Veins. The prettiest and the sluttiest thing about his dick would be the veins throbbing twitching and pulsating at the sight of you naked under him as his tip smears his hot precum slopping your entrance. His dick would be big and fat and the moment it would enter you, you would see black dots covering your vision till your eyes rolls with warm pleasure of him fucking you. He would go either feral or super gentle and teasingly slow, making love to you. What you love the most about his dick is you could trace his throbbing veins and twitching tip gushing his sperm into you making your hole sloppy and creamy with friction.

His dick would be 5 to 6 inches long and might gain half an inch when aroused. His dick would be slight tanned like geto's and the head would be thick with a long shaft. Toji loves pressing the bulge on your lower stomach when he's fucking you so his glans rubs your g-spot making you squirt. Later he eats your pussy out while he makes you lick the mess you did on the floor.

Other parts- The moan analysis | The cum analysis

a/n- the amount of sanity i lost while writing this is insane | © strawberrymochin 24 | plagiarism won't be tolerated

[strwbwrrybunny]

yummy. eren j. 3k.

cw✿ hockeyplayer! eren, black reader, fingering, creaming, dirty talk, unprotected sex, pussy slapping, cervix kissing, praise, pet names, daddy kink, size difference, overstimulation, creampie. or in which he fucks you in his jersey. mdni

a/n ✿ been missing my baby eren . . . so i wrote this, enjoy!

for as long as you could remember you'd always been a sucker for pretty men. you didn't mind a man with a bit of hair, but, there was something so enticing, so core-thrilling aout a man who was girl-pretty. yes, girl-pretty. a man with delicate, smooth, almost feminine features. and that's exactly what he was.

from the way his chestnut colored hair was always pulled into a messy ponytail, to his masculine yet soft face that you often found yourself gazing at, he was mesmerizing. it’s a constant struggle not eye-fucking him every chance you get; he was just too sexy. everything about eren jaeger pulled you in. his warm olive skin, the way he moved almost predatory, with the grace of a panther and the confidence of someone who knew exactly how fine they were. his scent, his laugh, his voice, every part of his being.

it's also hard not to throb as his hands are resting lightly on your hips, fingers occasionally brushing against your skin, sending electric shivers up your spine. the sight of his toned abs and sharp v-line disappearing into the waistband of his checkered pajama pants is almost too much to bear.

“breakfast smells amazing baby.“ his voice is deep, guttural and breathy, god, you love his morning voice. a smile decorates your face as you drape your arms around his neck, spatula still grasped between your fingers. “thanks baby.”

it amazes him how you always look so perfect. your round, sparkling eyes gaze up at him lovingly, and your face, bare of makeup, is a vision of natural beauty. the way you tease your bottom lip with your teeth only adding to the allure, making his heart race.

his cock twitches eagerly at the sight of you. it doesn't help that you're wearing his hockey jersey, the number thirteen plastered against the front as it hangs loosely off your left shoulder. the fabric barely covers your ass, and he can't help but feel a surge of desire.

his calloused hands find their way to your bottom, kneading the flesh with a stark contrast to your soft skin. the roughness of his touch against your smoothness sends a chill up your back, intensifying the moment. the jersey, with its familiar scent and feel, only makes the connection between you two more intimate, more electrifying. he marvels at how effortlessly you’re able to get him riled up.

"down boy!"

fingertips pressing into his chest and pushing him away gently. he pouts, jutting his pink bottom lip out in an exaggerated manner. it's almost comical to see the six-foot-four ice hockey player, who usually looks intimidating as fuck with his inked skin and muscular frame, pouting like a child. his broad shoulders slump slightly, and he gives you those puppy-dog eyes, making it hard not to laugh at the contrast between his tough exterior and his playful, almost boyish demeanor.

"you're such a tease,"

eren grumbles, adjusting his raging boner before fixing himself a cup of coffee. his stomach grumbles as he watches you cook, the delicious aromas wafting through the kitchen. you're an amazing cook, often filling his belly with dishes he can't even pronounce, let alone replicate. the sight of you effortlessly moving around the kitchen, whipping up culinary masterpieces, never fails to mesmerize him. you always make extras for his team members, and they love it. love it a little too much if you asked eren, always nagging him, asking when you're going to cook for them again. even going as far as asking to come over just to enjoy one of your home-cooked dinners.

“you’re a big boy, i think you’ll live ren.”

eren can't help but stare hungrily as you reach up to grab plates, your bare ass peeking out from the shirt. mmm, he inwardly groans at the sight. such a fucking tease. “m’ thank you pretty.” eren presses a light kiss on your cheek as you set an arrangement of cut up fruits in front of him. he always eats a bowl of fruit in the morning, claiming it wakes his tastebuds up.

‘welcome’ is all you manage out, knowing he's probably starving. you thought you could eat, but eren? that man could actually eat a horse. you didn’t mind feeding him, cooking and baking had always been a hobby for you. you loved the way his face lit up when he tasted your food and sweet treats, always moaning and savoring it, ‘you’ve done it again’ is what he’d say each time.

“so, how was practice babe? you got home late, i tried to stay up but i was tired.” you gently scoop the eggs from the skillet and place them neatly beside the cheese grits. eren rolls his arm, left shoulder still aching from the numerous swings he’d done yesterday.

you already knew his answer before he spoke; you could see the tiredness in his eyes. the way his usually relaxed muscles were tense this morning. his job was demanding, you knew that. being a professional ice hockey player was not for the weak—all the injuries, all the hours dedicated to practice—but he always seemed to carry the weight of it on his shoulders without a single complaint. that was something you loved about him, his perseverance. you admired how he pushed through the pain, the exhaustion, and the relentless schedule, all while maintaining his focus and determination. his dedication was unwavering, and even on the toughest days, he never let it break his spirit.

eren swirls his now warm coffee in his mug in disdain. "tough. coach has been breathing down our backs. but it's paying off. we're really starting to come together as a team." his mouth waters as you set the steaming plate in front of him, his stomach growling in anticipation.

“i’m glad, ren, you work so hard,” you say, smiling as you run your hands through his soft silky strands, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. he closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth of your touch and the comforting gesture. the aroma of the food fills the air, and you can see the tension in his shoulders begin to melt away.

he groans in delight as he stuffs a handful of eggs in his mouth, "i don't know how you do it," he says, shaking his head in amazement. "everything you make is just . . . perfecto.”

you laugh softly, setting the pitcher of orange juice in the middle of the kitchen island, “you're just saying that because you're hungry," you tease, nudging him playfully.

eren scoffs,pulling you down onto his lap before you can sit across from him. "no, i mean it," he insists, wrapping his arms around your waist. "you're incredible. and not just in the kitchen."

you smile like a teenage girl as his words, leaning into his embrace. "well, you're not so bad yourself jaeger," you reply, kissing the tip of his nose.

he laughs, the sound vibrating through your body. "i guess i have my moments," he admits, nuzzling your neck. "but seriously, i don't know what i'd do without you."

"you'd survive," you say softly, resting your head against his. "but . . . i'm glad you don't have to."

he tightens his hold on you, his voice dropping to a whisper. "me too."

as quickly as you placed the plate in front of eren you were retrieving it, he always inhaled his food and you wondered if he’d actually even ever tasted it.

“final thoughts? comments?” you raise your eyebrows at him, collecting his empty plate then yours. eren pats his stomach, the usually toned area now bloated. “ten outta ten. compliments to the chef, i think she deserves a big kiss.” he watches you place the dishes in the washer, closing the door with your foot. his eyes follow your every move, a playful grin spreading across his face as he anticipates the reward he's mentioned. you can see the satisfaction in his eyes, a rare moment of relaxation after the grueling practice sessions. as you walk back towards him, he reaches out, pulling you into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. “seriously, it was delicious,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“thanks ren,”

a wave of pain in his shoulders makes him grimace, you hate the wear and tear hockey does to his body. but it’s his career, and you could never bring yourself to ask him to step away.

“how can i help?” worry etches your face, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“mm, i’ve got a couple of things in mind . . .” he murmurs, face buried in the crook of your neck, hands kneading your thighs.

“e-eren,” you gulp back a moan, feeling your core throb at his touch.

you don’t resist as eren gently takes your wrist and leads you into the bedroom.

“look at you, soaking my jersey,” he coos huskily behind you, one hand gripping your thigh, forcing your legs open, the other hand slipping in and out of your squelching pussy. a soft moan escapes your lips, back arching against his chest. his breath is hot against your ear, each ragged sound from him sending shivers down your spine. the intensity of his touch makes your body quiver, and you can feel the heat building between your legs.

“m’ sorry r-ren, j-just f-feels s-so good!”

a broken hiccup escapes your lips, head resting in the curve of his neck. fingers desperately grasping the sheets, knuckles turning white from the sensation of eren fingering you.

“it’s okay baby, you like when i’m diggin’ in you like this?” his filthy words overwhelm your senses. the sheets twist and crumpling beneath your grip as you cling to them, trying to anchor yourself amidst the waves of pleasure crashing over you.

“y-yes,” weak cries fumbling from your lips.

shlick, shlick, shlick.

“hear how she’s talking to me?”

eren grins, fingers sliding out of you, a trail of sticky fluid following. you whine at the sudden emptiness, flinching as eren’s hand smacks against your throbbing core. his relentless hits against you have you sobbing, “ren please n-no more!”

another slap.

then, another.

each strike leaves a burning sensation, making your body tense. the room is filled with the sound of your pleading cries and the sharp, rhythmic slaps, as eren spanks your pussy.

“must be a masochist, look how you’re throbbing.” he sucks his teeth, laughing. warmness envelops your face at his words, he’s right. you’re even wetter than you were before, he holds his hand. showcasing the way he has to wiggle his digits to break them apart from your juices. you turn away, embarrassed.

“don’t piss me off, look.” he hisses, fingers digging into your face, forcing you to look at his soaked hand. the sight of his glistening fingers, coated with your arousal, makes your cheeks burn even hotter. his grip tightens, and you can feel the roughness of his skin against your delicate face.

your thighs tremble uncontrollably as his slender fingers find their way back to your pussy, middle and ring tracing your soppy folds teasingly, thumb lazily abusing your throbbing clit in slow looping motions. an array of colorful dots spot your vision as his fingers delve deeper, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through you.

“oh fuckkk,” you grunt, eyes rolling back in your head. the sensation of his fingers massaging your slick walls and flicking your swollen bud has your stomach in a knot, every nerve in your body tingling.his other hand snakes under his jersey, pulling, tugging, twisting your sore nipples. his legs are hooked around yours, holding your squirming body in place. he knows you’re a runner, and the way he holds you says don’t even try.

“you’re so wet for me,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear, voice dripping with satisfaction.

“please, don’t stop,” you gasp, body arching instinctively towards him, craving more of the intoxicating pleasure.

“i won’t,” he murmurs, his fingers maintaining their relentless rhythm. “i want to see you fall apart.”

the combination of his words and the expert movements of his fingers drives you closer to the edge, your breath coming in ragged gasps as the sense builds to a fever pitch. “i’m so close,” you manage to say, voice trembling with anticipation.

“mmm, you wanna cum on my fingers kitten? ” his voice is thick with cockiness, thumb pressing harder against your clit. god, he loves the way you’re falling apart in his hands. those soft groans are enough to make his cock twitch in excitement as he feels you up with his fingers.

“yes, yes, yes, i wanna c-cum, please, ren!” you exclaim, your voice filled with urgency and desperation. he watches closely, avidly, as your brows knit together and your eyes close, body responding to the overwhelming sensations. his gaze is intense, absorbing every detail of your expression and the way your body moves.

tears spill from your eyes, and eren quickly kisses them away. “no crying, princess. take it like a big girl,” he whispers. you wanna scream, but you just nod slowly, body trembling. the sound of your pussy gets louder and more intense as eren picks up speed, the slick, rhythmic noises filling the room. his movements are unrelenting, each prod sending waves of pleasure through you. you can feel his fingers brushing across your cervix, the line between pain and pleasure blurring. the intensity is almost too much, but you hold on.

eren’s name becomes a chant on your lips, each syllable a testament to the pleasure he's orchestrating within you. you can only sit in a puddle of your juices as he dominates your body and mind. the way his thumb glides across your pulsating clit and his fingers are deep inside you has you clenching. one more flick and your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave.

“c-c-cumming!” you weep. eren doesn’t care, he’s still strumming your sensitive clit, his arm clamping down tight as you fight against his hold. “mhm, so pretty when you’re cumming,” he mewls, edging you through your climax.

your body shakes uncontrollably, every muscle tensing and releasing in waves. you can barely catch your breath as eren continues his relentless pace, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. the pleasure is almost too much, but you don't want it to stop.

“fuck,” you’re a whimpering mess.

eren's hand moves to grip your hip, holding you steady as he pushes you further into bliss. “look at you, so perfect, taking it all,” he whispers, his voice thick with lust. you can only moan in response, your mind too clouded with pleasure to form coherent words. his thumb circles your clit with precision, each movement leg shaking as the last.

as your climax begins to subside, eren slows his movements, but he doesn't stop. he keeps you on the edge, prolonging your pleasure, making sure you feel every second of it. "that's my girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "so beautiful when you cum for me."

“so tired,” you huff out in exhaustion, slumping completely in his hold. sweat licks at your body greedily, hair sticking to your face. eren finds the sight exhilarating.

“i know, baby, but i wanna fuck your pretty little ass in my jersey.” he presses a kiss on your temple.

you’re way too tired to fight him as he turns you on your side, a thigh in his hands. your stomach clenches as he pulls down his pants just above his knees. you gulp at the view, tip flushed pink glistening with precum, veins running along the thick masterpiece.

“ugh,” the feel of you has him groaning immediately, you’re so tight and warm around him. the stretch of him inside you hurts, and you find yourself gripping a pillow for comfort.

eren’s hands are firm as they hold your thigh, positioning you just right. he starts slow, letting you adjust to the intrusion.

“so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. each push forward is deliberate, making you feel every inch of him. your body responds despite the exhaustion, hips meeting his thrusts with a mind of their own.

the room fills with the sounds of your labored breaths and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. eren’s grip tightens, fingers digging into your thigh as he picks up the pace. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well,” he praises, his words a balm to your overwhelmed senses. the pain starts to melt into pleasure, a slow burn that builds with each thrust.

your clutch on the pillow tightens, knuckles white as you try to anchor yourself. eren’s free hand snakes to your front, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. the dual sensation has you arching, a moan escaping your lips. “eren . . .” you gasp, the sensitivity from your last orgasm still lingering.

his eyes flicker down to where you’re connected, watching with a smile as your pussy coats him in cream. this makes him groan, he’s been fucking you for less than minute and you’re already glazing him.

“f-faster! p-please f-fuck my pussy faster!” you croak out, pleasure racking your brain.

eren obeys, hand retracting from your clit. he braces his knees against the bed, your thigh on his shoulder as he rolls his hips into you faster. you’re a sweaty, whimpering mess underneath him. you look so damn sexy, eyes screwed shut, mouth agape, eyebrows scrunched together as your body juts forward with each thrust. your hair is now a frizzy raven mess, coils falling around your shoulders.

“such a slut,” he clenches his jaw, “greedy ass pussy lips don’t wanna let my cock go.” his pace quickens, hips snapping against you with a brutal rhythm.

each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, making you cry out. he watches you intently, mesmerized by the way your breasts bounce with each movement, the way your nails dig into the sheets trying to find some semblance of control.

“you take me so well,” he growls, voice laced with lust. “look at you, falling apart on my cock. you love this, don’t you?”

your body responds instinctively, tightening around him, drawing him deeper. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his own breaths coming out ragged. the room is filled with lewd wet sounds as he continues prodding into you.

your bubble butt ripples every time he thrusts into you, and it's such a hot sight. he can't get enough of it, watching the way your body moves with each powerful stroke. he wants to fill you up so bad, the thought of his cum leaking out of you drives him wild. your soft whines are like music to his ears, spurring him on even more. each thrust is more intense than the last, he loves seeing the way your body responds to him.

the way you moan and arch your back just makes him want to go harder and deeper, completely losing himself in the moment. his hands grip your hips, pulling you even closer as he buries himself inside you, feeling the incredible tightness and warmth. every movement, every sound you make, fuels his desire, pushing him to give you everything he's got.

“s’close! daddy.” you whine.

he can tell by the way you’re clamping down onto him, almost painfully.

"all yours, baby, take what you need," he groans, his legs buckling underneath him as you begin coming undone. you're gripping him so fucking tightly, he can't take it.

he's so pussy drunk.

"cummin’ again! ooo, fuck!" you sob out, trying to pull away from him, but he holds you in place.

"be a good girl and stay still, almost finished," he slurs, encased in your pussy. the warmth, the wetness your convulsing walls—it's all got him starstruck. he watches you with a dazed expression, completely mesmerized by the sight of you losing control. the intensity of the moment overwhelms him. his mind is clouded with desire, and he can't help but fuck deeper, savoring the way you react to every movement.

“i’m gna’ bust,” eren shakily whines, followed by a string of curses as he fills up your pussy. even when you’re leaking with his salty nut he doesn’t pull out, pushing his cum in you until he feels your hilt. “o-ow!” you shudder at the feeling, finally relaxing when he slides out. he watches happily as your pulsating pussy pushes out his cum, head between your legs as he holds your thighs open.

“what a warmup, practice is gonna rock today.”

@cinnn4mon all rights reserved, don’t steal, modify nor post outside of tumblr or i’ll find you🫧

[ltwilliammowett]

Glossary of Nautical Terms - as used in the late 18th and early 19th centuries

Aft: at or towards the stern or after part of a ship, the opposite of bow.

Aloft: overhead, or above.

Athwart: across.

Bank: a rising ground in the sea, differing from a shoal, because not rocky but composed of sand, mud or gravel.

Becalmed: to halt through lack of wind.

Bow: the foremost end or part of a ship, the opposite of stern.

Bowsprit: a large mast or piece of timber which stands out from the bow of a ship.

Burthen: the older term used to express a ship's tonnage or carrying capacity. It was based on the number of tuns of wine that a ship could carry in her holds, the total number giving her burthen.

Chase, to: to pursue a vessel in wartime with the aim of capturing, acquiring information from her, or destroying.

Colours: the name by which the national flag flown by a ship at sea is known, used to determine nationality.

Dead reckoning: a system of navigation where the position of a ship is calculated without the use of any astronomical observation whatever.

Fair wind: a wind favourable to the direction a ship is sailing.

Fathom: a measure of six feet, used to divide the lead (or sounding) lines in measuring the depth of water; and to calculate in the length of cables, rigging, etc.

Fore: the forward part.

Hail, to: to call to another ship.

Helm: the instrument by which the ship is steered, and includes both the wheel and the tiller, as one general term.

Jib: a triangular sail set by sailing ships on the boom which runs out from the bowsprit.

Jury-mast: a temporary makeshift mast erected to replace a mast that has been disabled or carried away.

Jury-rudder: a makeshift arrangement to give a ship the ability to to steer when she has lost her rudder.

Keel: the lowest and principal timber of a wooden ship - the single strongest member of the ship's frame.

Knot: the nautical measure of speed, one knot being a speed of one nautical mile (6,080 feet) per hour. As a measure of speed the term is always knots, and never knots an hour.

Landfall: the discovery of the land.

Land-locked: sheltered all round by the land, so that there is no view of the sea.

Lead: an instrument for discovering the depth of water, attached to a lead-line, which is marked at certain distances to measure the fathoms.

Lee: the side of a ship, promontory, or other object away from the wind; that side sheltered from the wind. It is the opposite side to windward.

Lee shore: a coastline on to which the wind blows directly - consequently it can be dangerous as the wind tends to force the sailing ship down on it.

Leeward: with the wind; towards the point to which the wind blows.

Letter of Marque: a commission issued in Britain by the Lord High Admiral or Commissioners of the Admiralty authorizing the commander of a privately owned ship to cruise in search of enemy merchant vessels. The letter of marque described the ship, her owners and officers, the amount of surety which had been deposited and stressed the necessity of having all prize vessels or goods seized condemned and valued at a Vice Admiralty Court for the payment of 'prize money'.

Lie-to: to prevent a vessel from making progress through the water - achieved by reducing sail in a gale. The objective is to keep the vessel in such a position, with the wind on the bow, as to ensure that heavy seas do not break aboard.

The Line (or 'Crossing the Line') Sailing across the Equator. Nautical tradition where seamen celebrate the crossing of the equator by dressing up and acting out a visit by King Neptune. Those who have not previously crossed the line are summoned to the court of Neptune for trial, followed by a ritual ducking (in a bathing tub of seawater) and sometimes lathered and roughly shaved.

Mainsail: the principal sail of a sailing vessel.

Mizzen (or mizen): the name for the third, aftermost, mast of a square-rigged sailing ship or of a three-masted schooner.

Muster: to assemble the crew of a ship on deck and call through the list of names to establish who is present and accounted for.

Muster-book: the book kept on board a vessel in which was entered the names of all men serving in the ship, with the dates of their entry and final discharge from the crew. It was the basis on which victuals were issued and payment made for services performed on board.

Pintle: a vertical metal pin attached to the leading edge of the rudder; it is fitted into the metal ring or 'gudgeon' bolted to the sternpost of a vessel. This provides the means for hinging the rudder on the sternpost and allows a rudder to be swung or turned as desired (by use of the tiller); where necessary (ie. when the rudder needs to be removed or repaired) the pintles can be unshipped quickly and the rudder detached.

Port: the left-hand side of a vessel as seen from the stern; also a harbour or haven.

Privateer: a privately owned vessel armed with guns which operated in time of war against the trading vessels of an enemy nation. Each privateer was given a a 'letter of marque' which was regarded as a commission to seize any enemy shipping as a 'prize'. The name 'privateer' has come to refer to both the ship and the men who sailed in her.

Prize: name used to describe an enemy vessel captured at sea by a ship of war or a privateer; also used to describe a contraband cargo taken from a merchant ship. A 'prize court' would then determine the validity of capture of ships and goods and authorize their disposal. 'Prize' in British naval history always acted as considerable incentive to recruitment with many men tempted to join the navy in anticipation of quick riches.

Prize Court: Captured ships were to be brought before prize courts where it was decided whether the vessel was legal prize; if so, the whole value was divided among the owners and the crew of the ship.

Prize Money: the net proceeds of the sale of enemy shipping and property captured at sea - these proceeds were distributed to the captors on a sliding scale from highest rank to lowest seaman.

Road or Roadstead: a stretch of sheltered water near land where ships may ride at anchor in all but very heavy weather; often rendered as 'roads', and does not refer to the streets of a particular port city but rather its anchorage, as in 'St Helens Roads', the designated anchorage for shipping located between St. Helens (Isle of Wight) and Portsmouth, or 'Funchal Roads' at the island of Madeira. (see Elizabeth Macquarie's 1809 Journal).

Quarter: (1)the direction from which the wind was blowing, particularly if it looked like remaining there for some time; (2)the two after parts of the ship - strictly speaking a ship's port or starbord quarter was a bearing 45° from the stern.

Ship: from the Old English scip, the generic name for sea-going vessels (as opposed to boats). Originally ships were personified as masculine but by the sixteenth century almost universally expressed as as feminine.

Shoal: a bank or reef, an area of shallow water dangerous to navigation. Sounding: the of operation of determioning the depth of the sea, and the quality of the ground, by means of a lead and line, sunk from the ship to the bottom, where some of the sediment or sand adheres to the tallow in the hollow base of the lead.

Sound: (1) to try the depth of the water; (2) a deep bay.

Sounding: ascertaining the depth of the sea by means of a lead and line, sunk from a ship to the bottom.

Soundings: those parts of the ocean not far from the shore where the depth is about 80 to 100 fathoms.

Spar: a general term for any wooden support used in the rigging of a ship - includes all masts, yards, booms, gaffs etc.

Squall: a sudden gust of wind of considerable strength.

Starboard: the right-hand side of a vessel as seen from the stern.

Stern: after-part of a ship or boat.

Tack: the nautical manouevre of bringing a sailing vessel on to another bearing by bringing the wind round the bow; during this manouevre the vessel is said to be 'coming about'.

Tide of Flood: the flow of the tidal stream as it rises from the ending of the period of slack water at low tide to the start of the period of slack water at high tide; its period is approximately six hours.

Trade Winds: steady regular winds that blow in a belt approximately 30 N. and 30 S of the equator. In the North Atlantic the trades blow consistently all year round, from the north-east; in the South Atlantic they blow from the south-east, converging just north of the equator. The meeting of the trade winds just north of the equator created the infamous 'doldrums', where sailing ships could be becalmed for days or weeks waiting for a wind to carry them back into the trades.They were known as trade winds because of their regularity, thereby assisting sailing vessels in reaching their markets to carry out trade.

Under way: the description of a ship as soon as she begins to move under canvas power after her anchor has been raised from the bottom; also written as 'under weigh.'

Voyage: a journey by sea. It usually includes the outward and homeward trips, which are called passages.

Watch: (1) one of the seven divisions of the nautical day; (2) one of two divisions of the seamen forming the ship's company.

Wear: the nautical manouevre of bringing a sailing vessel on to another tack by bringing the wind around the stern.

Weather: in a nautical sense (rather than a meteorological) this is the phrase used by seamen to describe anything that lies to windward. Consequently, a coastline that lies to windward of a ship is a weather shore; the side of a ship that faces the wind when it is under way is said to be the weather side a ship, etc.

Weigh: to haul up.

Weigh anchor: the raising of the anchor so that the ship is no longer secured to the sea or river bottom.

Windward: the weather side, or that direction from which the wind blows. It is the opposite side to leeward.

Yard: (1) a large wooden spar crossing the masts of a sailing ship horizontally or diagonally, from which a sail is set. (2) a shortened form of the word 'dockyard, in which vessels are built or repaired.

Sources: JEANS, Peter D. Ship to Shore: a dictionary of everyday words and phrases derived from the sea. Santa Barbara: ABC-Clio, 1993.

The Oxford Companion to Ships & the Sea. (ed.) Peter Kemp. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976.