#patchwork crocodile

[sarahkomik]

i just remembered i'm in the patchwork pals fandom... UHHHH

have these, 4 characters I like, but not patchwork

also reblogs are better than likes! but it's okay if you give em' a like!

[teethfairyyy]

Crococora doodle page!!

[fatwoof]

these arent nsfw so theres no reason for them to be here but you should all see it. its my most beautiful creation. it represents me after all~ (g*d says this about us)

(it/its)

(the post isnt but this blog has 18+ content click with care)

[fudgebuggyy]

H E L L I C O N I A S P R I N G

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bob x Thunderbolts!Yelena

Tags: Post-Canon, Thunderbolts Team Members Live in the Watchtower, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Thunderbolts SPOILERS contained!, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Addiction, Sexual Themes

Word count: 4.052k

Chapters: 2/4

Previous Chapter ✢ Next Chapter

Summary: Three months have passed since the Void descended upon New York, and Yelena is getting used to the life her sister led--dealing with PR agents and working in a team she's only recently learned to tolerate.

And then there's the Bob thing. And the Bob thing is super fucking complicated.

✢ Chapter 2 ✢

Bob told Yelena about the only person who had ever loved him from start to finish. He said it like that too, from start to finish. Like it was some grand, unbelievable gesture bestowed upon only the most deserving; like the Pope, or the son of “The Crocodile Hunter”.

Bob’s aunt had been one of those old-school hippies whose biggest achievement had been performing in a shoegaze band at Woodstock. She’d worn fringe vests and clunky crystal earrings and laced her coffee with turmeric powder. In summer, she'd rage against the cicadas by playing the guitar on her porch, her yellow bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac, with the crooked eaves and the sun catchers that scattered the loveliest light. 

Her favorite movie was The Man Who Fell to Earth starring David Bowie.

She spent most of his childhood fleeing the suburbs for beautiful places; Jaipur, the Sinai Peninsula, sending postcards from the Yellow Mountains in Anhui that Bob hid from his mother, who always thought of her sister as "dangerously progressive". Off and on, she reappeared on the porch of her little bungalow, the adventurer returned home, bestowing upon him riches from countries so far away they felt huge and cartoonish in his head at thirteen.

She taught Bob chess and how to roll a cigarette, and every once in a while, she taught him some dusty dance in her backyard—disco fox, Viennese waltz—her ditzy laughter, and her breath bloated with alcohol.

Like her sister, she had a bad taste in men. She forever fell for the lead singer, and they forever did something horrible that chased her out the country. That’s why you go for the drummers, Robbie. You go for the compass, the pulse of the group. They’re worth their weight in gold.

She died of lung cancer. Bob was nineteen. He spent months crashing in his dealer’s trailer at the edge of town, trying to get so high he’d forget or maybe die, but each time he came to, he was spit out into a world without her.

Bob had spoken about his aunt only once and then never again.

Yelena wondered if you could piece someone together based on the people they’d loved, or further even, if you could love someone based on who they were loved by. She wasn’t sure yet. She wasn’t sure about a lot of things.

But, bit by bit, she’d piece Bob together, a patchwork of tossed-aside comments and strange stories and extraordinary mistakes and the sun tattooed in the dip below his right ankle, and by the time the fourth month rolled around, whatever had been coming for her, came for her all at once.

It felt more like a reckoning than a realization.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

Being in a room with Bob made every part of her tilt towards him.

Yelena imagined herself living the rest of her life always standing at an angle, like the shadow of a very defective, very useless sundial. Pivoting every time Bob moved from bedroom to common area to kitchen to couch to gym to therapy to the helipad to everywhere else. Pivoting even when the pivoting meant it would earn her a hunting knife to the arm.

It had happened on the last day of a two-week mission to shut down some black-market biotech ring dabbling in interdimensional manipulation (which was a mouthful). In Svalbard of all places (which was super awful). Because of course international super villains never tried to dismantle the fabric of reality from some cushy beach villa in the Bahamas.

And of course Yelena had been too busy wondering about Bob back at the tower, wondering if he’d woken up yet, if his hair was stringy and curling from his shower, if he’d made himself a cup of coffee yet, and how ridiculous it was that he always added a spoon to it even when he skipped the milk, and how she’d asked him once, and how he’d said he’d only had Folgers instant coffee growing up, and how he’d gotten used to grinding down those tough little kernels—

“Alright, count to three because this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker,” Bucky warned her on their flight back, lifting a field stapler to her bleeding arm and pressing down.

He wasn’t kidding.

The clarity barely lasted a minute. Before, hunched in her seat trying not to scream, she thought about the only thing she’d been thinking about for days: Are you reading in the den? Are you watching The French Chef without me? Are you out for a smoke? Are you letting Valentina talk you into that horrific supersuit again? Yellow’s not your color. Are you bored? Do you miss me? Are you thinking of me? Do you ever just sit there and think and think and think and think and think of me—

“—I’m just saying, I’d appreciate it if I were utilized more. It’s always: Ghost, run through that wall! Ghost! Disappear!”

Walker groaned. “That’s what you do.”

“Case in point, you fucking moron.”

They were a clump of bloodied, beaten cretins by the time they slopped into the tower, dragging themselves to the common area like a funeral procession.

Ava and John had been at each other’s throats since takeoff, and the endless flight from Svalbard’s base had made Yelena ponder ripping the staples out of her arm to let herself bleed to death.

“Bucky, why don’t you jot this very serious issue down so we can discuss it with HR," John said, grinning when he was met with Bucky's vibranium middle finger. 

“Just because mass casualty is off the table, doesn’t mean I have to be shoved aside to pick locks,” Ava swung her arm towards John, “while Captain Cuck over here gets to spray his bullets around like he’s Tony Montana.”

“Oh, that’s good one, Ava. Very funny.” Dragging his fractured leg, Alexei howled the way he always did. He had a real pervert’s laugh, and it was loud and bellowing enough to smack even Yelena out of her stupor.

She rolled her eyes. “Not that I enjoy jumping to his defense, but they had us cornered.”

Vindicated, John waved at her. “Thank you—”

"What was he supposed to do?” she cut him off, “smack them with his hat?”

“For the last time, it’s a beret.”

“You gave your hat a name?” Alexei scrunched his brows.

“No, that’s the—You know what, screw all of you. It tested well with the focus groups. Plus, my kid likes it.”

“Didn't know god-awful taste is genetic," Ava mumbled.

Judging by the look on John’s face, she wouldn’t have made it to the kitchen in one piece if Bob hadn’t kicked the door open, wielding a baking dish filled with blistering, bubbling cheese. 

“Welcome back,” he said, like a mother in a 50’s sitcom, all frazzle-haired and oven-mittened and wonderful.

Something in Yelena sagged with so much relief she wanted to crawl towards him on her hands and knees and wrap herself into a ball at his feet.

He looked just the way they’d left him.

“You made your lasagna?” she croaked. She sounded like someone who’d had their arm stapled shut on a ten-hour flight from a frozen tundra at the end of the world.

“I made four.”

Satisfied groans from all around.

“Come here.” Alexei was already climbing over John and Bucky to grab Bob by the face.

“That won’t be necessary.” Caught in a chokehold, Bob’s cheeks ripened with a brilliant flush. “Thank you—Oh. Okay. Please…stop—”

“We missed you, Bobby boy.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you food that isn’t poached.”

Alexei grumbled another one of his dirty-old-man laughs before giving Bob’s head a silly smooch.

And as they spread across the counters and dug into heaps of Lasagna alla Bolognese in exhausted silence, Bob watched over them like a mother hen counting all of her chicks, and then counting them twice.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

After a long visit to the med bay and an even longer shower, Yelena lay sprawled on the couch in the den, lumped under so many blankets and throw pillows she’d have to be exhumed. Loafy-warm and liquefied and aching, she struggled to keep her eyes on the projector screen: The French Chef, season two, episode four: "Coq au Vin".

(Bob hadn’t watched without her.)

It turned out, he’d spent most evenings in the den, hints of him lazily scattered about; his AirPods on the coffee table, a forgotten mug, a notebook and pen, a tattered paperback with a strange bird on the cover and a title Yelena couldn’t decipher from afar.

The faint smell of his deodorant. Clean lemongrass.

Every once in a while, her attention drifted towards Bob, who was the only one awake enough to join her. (Also, the only one who was willing to sit through an hour of Julia Child explaining how to properly chop chives.) Sitting on the blankets next to her, his hand so close she could touch him if she just flexed her pinkie far enough.

Something about this made her feel young, like she was back in Ohio having returned from a sweltering summer afternoon out on the block, lolling on the couch with the television on while Natasha braided her hair in slow measured strokes.

Yelena didn’t know when returning to the tower had started to feel like returning home. This bastioned mountain filling a space in her mind that had been kept vacant for a reason. Now, home was a military-grade security system and steel beams and tinted glass and the loose collars of Bob’s pale blue sweaters that dipped just so, and dipped so sweetly sometimes she could spot the space between his collar bones, begging for her thumb to be pressed to it.

What did you do without us around? Did you wonder about me? Did you think of me, ever? Did you miss me? Were you so miserable with the missing of me?

“Were you okay?” She asked this carefully, checking in like she was checking for a fever.

Bob gave one of his silly Bob-snorts. In her head, she could eat them. “You know,” he arched a brow, “contrary to popular belief, I’m able to survive in a glorified luxury bunker without talking to a volleyball…or like, I don’t know, hanging myself in a closet.”

“That’s not funny, Bob.”

“It’s a little funny,” he mumbled, smiling. She wanted to touch his eyelashes. “It was fine. Boring, but uh—you know. I think I spent way more time in therapy just to have someone to talk to. Umm…practiced with the nunchucks. Still terrible at it. Oh, and I tried making a soufflé.”

Her slow tired smile. “From season one, episode twenty-nine?”

He snorted again, endlessly amused by her knowing each episode's name and number by heart. Outdated American references stored tidily in her head, relics from her time spent strapped in front of television screens leeching on this country’s culture like a tick.

“That’s the one,” he said. “Apparently, I’m worse at making soufflés than using nunchucks, so do with that what you will.” He picked at the blankets. “I taught Mel how to play chess. We did a whole tournament-type thing.”

“Did you win?”

“Oh, she beat me, like, immediately. And then she let me win the last round because she felt bad.”

Yelena huffed a laugh. “How would you know? Maybe you’re better at chess than making soufflés and using nunchucks.”

“No, she made sure to tell me. Multiple times.” Bob snorted again.

“I feel like Mel could secretly beat the shit out of me.”

“We should probably keep an eye on her.”

“Make sure she doesn’t cause global annihilation."

"Yeah."

"Yup."

He smiled, then took a breath, then looked up. “What about you? Were you okay?”

Yelena swallowed.

Anywhere else, with anyone else, her answer might’ve been different. She might’ve skipped over those long agonizing nights staking out in the hull of a cargo ship, or the young Interpol agent who’d been caught in their crossfire, his body going limp in her arms. She might've scoured through herself looking for the right box to push it into, push it away.

But this was Bob, and she was so tired.

“No,” she said.

Shifting, he turned towards her fully.

His eyes looked darker like this, darker even when his attention zeroed in on her bandaged arm. It happened sometimes, this disquieting panic that felt instinctual, old, swelling inside of her, reminding her of the day his black shape rose over New York. A gaping pit of nothing, its never-ending tunnels to places unfathomable. 

She wanted to hold his face in her hands and tell him that she was fine, she was okay, I’m okay like this, I’m okay now. But she was tired. She’d missed him. She’d been so miserable with the missing of him.

With every ounce of energy she had left, she arched her pinkie towards his—just a little, inch by inch—until, finally, the tip of her nail grazed the tip of his.

She knew the shape of this feeling by heart.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

Yelena had spent most of her life doling out punishment for people who believed they had the right to lord over those who deserved it and those who didn’t.

She was twenty-seven by the time she’d destroyed the last trace of the Red Room. People intentionally had kids at twenty-seven, they went on their last backpacking trip before settling for a career, they had cars that didn’t have to be shitty, they had a place of their own where they could afford the furniture. They were in relationships and went on dates and had sex and went out and complained about how they couldn’t drink the way they used.

At twenty-seven, the first thing Yelena had ever gotten herself was a tactical vest (with pockets), followed by a vinyl she couldn’t play (Dusty Springfield), and a gay porno on VHS that she’d watched in a motel in Arkansas (Saving Ryan’s Privates).

She supposed at that point, sex had been an alien thing, only to be whispered about in the bunk beds of the Red Room, a lecherous thrilling secret, oh, the things to be felt, Yelena! Have you tried it with a showerhead? Even kissing had been alien—kissing was for jewelry commercials and rom-coms about witty men meeting witty women in rainy cities, it was for Italian frescoes and horny poets and the horny chain-smoking Frenchmen in Bob’s New Wave movies.

The first person Yelena had ever kissed was Kate Bishop, and it had been as terrifying as it had been perfect, this trembling thing that unspooled inside of her, how the needing of it had surprised her so completely she could’ve begged for it on hands and knees. She’d concluded that kissing was as much for jewelry commercials and horny poets—as it was for the Kate Bishops of the world.

But then Kate had broken her heart, and Yelena had stumbled through the rest of her life wondering if she was meant for kissing too, or if all she was good for was assembling a gun.

And then there was sex.

And sex was something she didn’t know how to have sober. (Even with the Kate Bishops of the world.)

It wasn’t a thing she thought or worried about much. It existed mysteriously in the periphery of her life; along with dating and backpacking trips, and whatever average customs and crises plagued the people her age. But then sometimes, just sometimes, every once in a while during moments so minute...Bob stretched and the hem of his sweater skimmed up his skin…Sometimes he brushed past her in the kitchen, and his hand grazed her waist so tenderly it must’ve been by accident…Sometimes she felt his breath blast down the back of her neck, her elbow in his ribs, his knee sinking into the meat of her thigh—

“—faster. You’re dragging.” With a shove backward, Yelena unhooked Bob from herself, and he went tumbling onto the training mat. “You can’t second-guess yourself. You don’t have time for that when you’re fighting for—”

“—for your life, I know. I know.”

“Then move like it.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do? And that’s a rhetorical question, please don’t answer that.” Bob fell to his back, his T-shirt shucked up to reveal the taut planes of his stomach.

Swallowing, Yelena looked away. She leaned forward to catch her breath, wiping away the sweat stinging her eyes. The stitches in her arm had popped; she could feel it.

Bob sat up, completely dry and breathing normally. “Do you want to take a break?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yelena—”

“I said I’m fine, Bob.”

His concern shouldn’t have bothered her the way it did. Neither should his sweat-less-ness.

Sure, he fought like someone who’d avoided fighting his whole life, stiff and unsure, and more stiff and unsure than he usually was on the mat. But he was far stronger than he had been a month ago, faster too, and Yelena knew what that meant. Soon, the only people he could train with were those able to survive a super-serum-induced punch with the blowback of a sonic boom. Yelena was for the regulars, the humans with their breakable bones and woundable flesh, and here she was sparring with a man who had the potential to be the most cataclysmic force on planet earth.

The very least she wanted to do for him was teach him how to fight when fists were the last resort: Hand-to-hand, face-to-face, bound, gagged, feral, with nothing to lose. She’d been doing this long enough to know that even gods and super-humans met their match eventually.

She needed Bob to pack a nasty uppercut once the time came.

Nudging him with her foot, she said, “Come on, get up.”

“Yelena…”

“Again.“

He sighed. She cocked a brow. He relented. Again, they circled each other. And again, his movements dragged, almost as if it were deliberate. Yelena was so fucking tired of being held back on. Sliding her foot between his legs, she managed to unbalance him, aiming at his ribs in a series of quick cruel jabs, his breath close and damp enough she felt it spill below her ear. She pushed. He tumbled.

Again, she demanded. Again. Again. “Again, Bob.”

“Yel—”

“Again. “

And so they returned to the same sequence of movements—elbow hook, low sweep, slip and circle—again and again, until finally, Bob, like an ancient colossus exhausted from defending himself from some mortal’s fickle weaponry, grabbed her by the waist and hurled her onto the mat so hard her breath spewed out in one vicious blow. The pain in her arm wrecked through the rest of her body. Teeth clenched to keep herself from yelling. Dizzy, reeling through the whiplash, a body shoved above hers, head stooped low, shrouded in dark as it crowded out the light.

The panic this time was strange. Thicker. Hot. Something primal that dug through her skin. She felt it vibrate in her hands as she reached for him. An impulse so ingrained it was muscle memory. Grabbing hold of his head, she tugged him close, and when he turned his face…light pooled along the smooth valleys of it. 

He blinked. He softened, his head bumping puppy-like and clumsy against hers. 

“Shit,” he ground out. “I didn’t mean to, I’m—sorry. Sorry. Are you—”

“I don’t break that easy.”

He was so close his face was a pale blur. “I’m sorry," he said again. 

Her fingers tightened in his hair, then loosened. “Don’t apologize.”

The heat of him like this. Her feet ground into the mat. Her chest swelling with air, and his breath, and the smell of his deodorant, clouding her over in a haze thick enough to chew on, Oh, the things to be felt, Yelena—and what a horrible fucking time to be feeling them.

“You won't always be able to depend on your powers, Bob,” she said this so quietly she was afraid he hadn’t heard.

“They’re designed to be dependable.”

“Everything in this building is designed to be dependable until it isn’t. When people are able to do the things you can do, relying on anything is conditional.” He was still so close. How was he still so close. “Trust me.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation. “But, I just—I need these powers to be dependable, because if they’re not…” he trailed off. She didn't want him to finish that sentence. 

Whatever spell had pinned her to the mat, unpinned her. She released him. As if on cue, everything inside of her lost its balance.

“Because if they’re not, you’ll be left with a shit right hook.” She cut him off before he said something stupid he couldn’t take back, and rolled out from under him. “Get up. We’ll take a break in a bit.”

She wanted to say more but stopped when the gym came back into focus. The dumbbells weren’t where they were supposed to be, nor were the keg rings or the weapons on the racks. Her eyes tracked as half the room floated in the air, spinning in slow circles like comets.

“Bob—”

“It’s okay,” he said, and then he said it again, and before Yelena could protest, her body loosened itself from the ground.

She never expected weightlessness to devastate her.

“I wanted to tell you. But it just never...I don’t know, it just—” He shook his head. “I’ve been able to do a lot since you guys left for Svalbard.”

“That’s a long time, Bob.” Trying not to panic, she bobbed upside-down, before a warm invisible pressure tipped her upright and kept her steady.

“I know," he said. 

Was he devastated too?

In another version of this very moment, Yelena might’ve cackled with her head tipped back. She might've let Bob pinwheel her between floating barbells and training dummies until her head bonked against the ceiling. She might’ve told him to show her more, show her everything. 

In this version though, she stared at Bob rooted in the center of the gym like a planet around which everything spun. And when he rose, slowly, slowly, she thought he looked nothing like that day; lit from above, he fit into his body in ways she’d never seen before.

The benevolent titan carrying the world in his orbit. 

“Sometimes it almost feels like it did back then," he said, and she didn't like the way it sounded. 

“Does Valentina know?”

Bob's eyes flicked to something behind her shoulder, but Yelena was too busy trying to keep her balance to check what it was. “I’m not worried about her,” he said. A breath, then, “This doesn't change anything.”

“It’s already changing."

He was floating above her now, power rippling all around, his hair and clothes flowing in a tide she couldn’t feel but wanted to so frantically the wanting of it surged through her, from top to bottom, and how she could’ve arched towards him then, her body like a pebble knocked loose in a current.

Two weeks she’d spent in a frozen tundra, obsessed with the thought of Bob safely tucked away in a glass box, endlessly looking forward to returning to him.

How had Natasha done this? Any of this? Had she expected the people she cared about most to stay put if she'd just expected it hard enough? Did she have someone back then? And did she expect that someone to always be the thing waiting for her in the tower, waiting to be returned to. Had she wanted to stand between them and life itself? Breakable bones and woundable flesh and fickle mortal weaponry and all?

How did you live like this? 

Yelena tossed that question onto the pile of other questions she’d never get to ask her sister.

Staring up at Bob, his powers lowering her gently to the ground, she thought of the first time she’d ever seen him fall from the sky. A solar flare over Utah. She thought of his aunt. She thought of that movie with David Bowie. 

Robert Reynolds wasn’t Sentry, he wasn’t the Void—but he had been. It was only a matter of time until he would be again.

Previous Chapter ✢ Next Chapter

[theshipsong]

perona x fem reader, pre-polyamorous relationship, cw: mention of breath play and dubcon voyeurism via ghost. selfship-heavy feat. mihopero. reader is an astrologer in an established relationship with crocodile and calls him a tagalog pet name. wc 1.4k | est. 5 min read

"Buwaya, it's terrible hospitality if no one checks on them."

"'Hospitality'? They're not guests. Besides, I don't care for Moria."

"Ugh. I'll go. Be right back, promise."

"I'm timing you."

You swept out of your shared tent. Ever since you picked a long, light strand of hair from one of Mihawk's high collared shirts, you kept an eagle eye of your own out for who it could belong to, with no leads until the two Thriller Bark pirates arrived from Hachinosu and Perona's candyfloss curls shone in the sunlight. They made an odd sight in the light of day much like Mihawk did, at first, until you got used to seeing him with a sun hat in the mornings to tend the small garden he'd started by his tent.

Two of Perona's ghosts stood—floated—guard outside the entrance. Divided though the camp was between Cross Guild and the established Buggy's Delivery, Perona's tent was near Alvida's, and the odd thought came that it might have been yours if Crocodile weren't the way he was. The hollows just looked at you curiously when you approached.

"Perona?" you called clearly.

"Oh, good!" You didn't expect that reaction, but the younger woman pulled the curtain back quickly and grabbed your arm.

Her tent was as sparse as yours had been when you arrived, with only a double bed, currently occupied by a patchwork stuffed animal you couldn't confidently identify, a small desk and chair, and her trunk overflowing with clothes and cosmetics and hats.

Perona pushed a furniture catalog into your hands, and you onto her bed. "You're cute enough so I'll ask your opinion," she sniffed as she pulled the bear? rabbit? into her lap, sitting next to you with the ruffles of her skirt squishing against your thigh. You couldn't be offended since you found her almost unbearably cute yourself, and she smelled sweet, like creme brulee. Was that what did it for Mihawk? You had no illusions that what you did together meant a terribly strong attraction on his end, and it was more than a bit arousing how he treated you like a borrowed toy. But what was the swordsman like with someone he felt was his?

"Honored. What are you thinking?"

"I haven't had a bed canopy in two years," Perona mused, "but is that childish? Princess-y?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. "Princess" slipped past Mihawk's lips once, like a habit, and you caught the split second where his golden eyes widened before he corrected to "pet."

"It might help for privacy here. We have extra drapes in ours." To spare, or maybe deprive your neighbors. You and Crocodile didn't know each other's tastes in explicit terms, but he'd grunted in approval at the blue-blacks and deep, green-leaning turquoise you chose, and the dark navy matched the velvet duster he had tailored for you that same week.

Perona pouted, and her lipstick was the prettiest berry you'd ever seen.

"What's your favorite color?" you asked.

"It changes," she mused. "Red. Blue. Gold."

These two, you thought as Mihawk's glare flashed in your mind. "Black?"

"Well, of course," she said, like it was a given. "Like your hair." She plucked one lock off your shoulder with a coffin-shaped nail, and you shivered, not unpleasantly. "It's the first thing I noticed here. True black, night black." Perona laughed her strange little laugh, and it brought a smile to your face. She was so much more forward than most men you'd been with, although they were each masters of repression, weren't they. Virgos.

"I like yours, too," you said shyly. "Pink's actually my favorite, but no one would think it looking at me."

"Screw them," Perona huffed. She swept one side of your hair behind your ear. "Can I?"

You nodded, not sure what she asked exactly, but all became clear when she stuck her knee between yours, half-straddling you as she brushed the other half of your hair back. She studied your face seriously, like an artist, or a scientist. "So pretty without makeup. I'm jealous."

"Well. Foundation."

"Shh."

You were almost the same height, how you were eye level like this—another novelty—and Perona's dark eyes dropped to your lips. You fought the urge to bite down nervously, instead wetting them before you let the furniture catalog fall to floor so you could cup her face and kiss her.

She was just as sweet as you thought, dark fruit like sugared plums, and she licked into your mouth to reciprocate with an impatient little whine, and she ground against you through layers of fabric.

"Oh—Perona—!" you said in surprise.

"Please—"

And she pulled herself up your thigh, hiking up her skirts so they fanned out and covered you both.

"I saw you and Mihawk," she whispered as you splayed your hands on her back, the bare skin of her shoulder blades, the corsetry on her dress.

"How?" When? You hadn't even spoken since they arrived.

"I use my ghosts as scouts. I've had a few here for"—she whimpered at the denim you wore, rough through her thin panties—"days."

Your already flushed neck got hotter. Two nights ago, Crocodile waved the two of you off to start without him, and it ended with Mihawk taking you to the brink of asphyxiation and the two men cooing over you as you came and cried.

"I asked, he never—ever—wanted to do anything like that," she was saying, her lip wobbling before she hid her face in your neck, breathing deep. "What changed? Is it me?"

"I—fuck—" She dug her knee in sharply trying to find purchase, and it was a frustrating tease of simulation that you knew wouldn't get you anywhere. "Ask him—"

"I tried—"

"Perona—I don't want to talk about him right now—" You just held her as she rolled her hips, and raised your knee to give her a harsher angle as she worked her way past her emotional outburst, eventually kissing your jaw and dragging her tongue along your throat. Your giggle at the sensation turned to a moan, and you held her by nape of her neck, threading your fingers into the roots of her hair.

"You taste good," she said, sucking the skin there, and she hissed as you tugged reflexively.

"Sorry—"

"Harder."

As you obliged, your own busy mind conjured its own theories about Perona's sex life, what she wanted and what she was used to, but you set that aside to cradle this woman through her orgasm, which crashed through with a shudder and her panting hotly against your neck. She pulled her other leg over and straddled your hips properly, peppering short kisses all over your face. "You're so nice," Perona cooed. "So cute. What did that big brute do to deserve you?"

You grinned against her mouth. "He's nice in his way. So's Mihawk."

She huffed. "I don't want to talk about him."

"Seems like you care more about him than getting to know me."

"Hah?" It was indignant and darling. "I'm not done with you yet."

"Good." You awkwardly offered your hand in a close quarters handshake. "I'm Cross Guild's navigator."

Perona took it with a pantomimic flare. "Ghost Princess Perona."

"Is that a formal title?"

"Moria-sama's always said it."

You shrugged. "Good enough." He was an interesting man, too.

Perona tossed her mass of hair over her shoulder before she hooked her fingers together behind your neck. "Alvida said you read tarot."

Of all things... You treated it as a party trick, mostly, and somehow that's what the Guild other than your lovers remembered. "I'm mostly an astrologer." And you could tell her all about his chart, but that felt like a violation.

Her eyes lit up. "Really? Oh." She frowned. "I don't know my birth time."

"We can figure it out." You hadn't rectified a horoscope since you ran away to join the near-literal circus, but you were willing to try. For free, at that.

Perona giggled. "Don't you have to get back to Crocodile?"

"He'll live. You know, I'm supposed to see how that captain of yours is settling in, too..."

At that, she paled. "Not looking like this you aren't." And she rubbed at your jaw, showing you her fingertip with a smudge of pink pigment.

You tilted your head as you looked at her face instead. "Your lipliner is fantastic."

She preened for a moment before batting her pretty lashes at you. "Help me unpack?"

And you'd never understood Mihawk more.

[wordy-little-witch]

Silly Buggy ideas, but Buggy have oversensitive observation Haki but also Buggy having a strange ability not unlike the voice of all things, specifically being able to hear the echoes of energy from others. He can hear, see and sense the dead, the dying, the things beyond this world.

It's both INCREDIBLE useful and fairly useless. Buggy is constantly getting a lot of Input, because echoes exist everywhere and he's semi desensitized to it all. Sometimes they give him useful info, like a heads up about am attack from behind or little reminders. Sometimes they just wanna cause Mischief and Buggy, being the only "fleshy" who can see them, is their target. He gives as good as he gets though.

He forgets sometimes that others can't detect the other's, so he'll overhear a recruit in a heated discussion with another about ghosts existing, will drop a serious "Oh yeah they're definitely real. There's a bunch here, too" and then leaves, never to explain or expand on that again, his underlings now SWEATING bc Chairman Buggy What Do You Mean-??

Add in that certain blades in One Piece are given specific titles and specifications because they meet certain criteria. Yoru is one of the highest ranked blades in existence. She is imbued with Mihawk's Haki, but she's also spirited and has a soul - one imbued into her by the death of other handlers/smiths. Mihawk, as her Current Wielder, is able to feel and hear her, but Buggy can see her. He's.... a little intimidated by her, all things considered, but he's also got some survival instincts AND sense, so he's always polite. Yoru actually quite likes him. He isn't sure if he likes being favored by the patchwork persona of a giant and deadly weapon.

Crocodile meanwhile can never understand why Buggy has such a fixation on cleaning his hook. It's clean enough, but he will admit that it does often feel better when he gets it back from the clown. He'll allow it.

Buggy just has full on conversations with dead people when he's alone, not bothering to hide it at all, and because of the close proximity his main crew has had with him for so long, they also begin to find themselves Noticing things. None of them really have the same innate ability as their captain, but Buggy's Haki has braided into theirs just enough to give them glimpses, usually of the more powerful beings present.

Crocodile and Mihawk only really notice it when they are both tired, stressed, worried over a feverish, unconscious jester, and between one look and the next there is suddenly a fourth man in the room. They both jolt upwards, defensive, protective, until the man turns enough to flash them a familiar grin, and they both gape.

Gol D Roger cackles soundlessly at their expressions before turning back to Buggy. His smile softens, his eyes fall lidded, and sweat slick curls are brushed back from a burning forehead with a tenderness most would think the King of Pirates incapable of. The pinch in Buggy's brow twitches, a soft whine of discontent rising hoarsely from his throat. He turns his head, a mumble of what may have been nonsense or may have been a horribly slurred attempt at "cap'n-".

There is no sound from Roger, at least not that the dark haired men could hear, but they see the man move his lips, see Buggy's head turn towards him, like a flower to the sun. They smell the sudden wave of sea salt and rum and laughter, a scent without compare. They can't do much else but watch as a dead man takes up vigil at the side of a man he had once called son.

Buggy's fever breaks early the next morning.

[manic-maniac-man]

Gucci

SS04

"Tom Ford's Texas roots came to the fore as cowboy-style ten gal- lon hats worn with western boots, flower printed western shirts and cool center-creased jeans swaggered out onto the runway this sea- son. Leather blousons crafted into patchwork of butterfly and flower motifs and crocodile skin leather jackets gave a sense of modern European luxury, while a tennis look comprised of Henley neck shirts with short pants and sneakers with green and red lines com- prised a distinctly "70s retro sports style." -gap PRESS

[friendly-neighbourhood-librarian]

169 Reading Scavenger Hunt 2024

Created by @readnburied

Original post here

I found 136 items across 21 different books!

Wristwatch - The Eyre Affair

Scarf - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Mason jar

Ticket - The Eyre Affair

Fuse - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Guitar - Nightwatching

Rocking chair

Rock - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Picture frame - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Fireplace - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Moon - The Girl Who Drank the Moon

Calendar - The Eyre Affair

Duffel bag - Nightwatching

Boarding pass - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Star - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Plate - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Ceiling fan - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Coffee cup - Nightwatching

Barista

Sparrow - The Girl Who Drank the Moon

Bottle - If a Pirate I Must Be

Soda

Egg - The Eyre Affair

Mascara - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Strobe lights

Martini

Leaf - Nightwatching

Stethoscope - Sorcery of Thorns

Squid - Moby Dick

Dagger - House of Salt and Sorrows

Blue car - The Eyre Affair

April - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Bow - Nightwatching

Cat - The Eyre Affair

Tapestry - North and South

Bookshelf - Nightwatching

Pearl - The Shuttle

Ice cream - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Christmas tree - Nightwatching

Grandfather clock - House of Salt and Sorrows

Staircase - Nightwatching

Shampoo bottle

iPhone - Look in the Mirror

Crocodile - If a Pirate I Must Be

Facebook

Winter - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Teeth - The Princess and the Hound

Pen - If a Pirate I Must Be

Space - The Eyre Affair

Spa

Mouse - The Eyre Affair

Barstool

Sculpture - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Faucet - House of Roots and Ruin

Shoerack

Tulip

Black tie

Gym - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Flag - If a Pirate I Must Be

Soccer ball

Halter-neck dress

Seashell - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Windmill - House of Salt and Sorrows

Selfie

Mahogany - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Red light - The Eyre Affair

Wallet - Nightwatching

Brain - The Emerald City of Oz

Building - The Eyre Affair

Fashion designer

Chinese vase

Seed - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Hot chocolate - House of Salt and Sorrows

Envelope - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Heart - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Herb - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Flame - The Eyre Affair

Road - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Web - Nightwatching

Stitch - If a Pirate I Must Be

Music notes - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Chocolate - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Sling - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Bracelet

Bellboy - Moby Dick

Shovel - Dracula

Racket - The Patchwork Girl of Oz

Flip flops

Fireworks - Howl's Moving Castle

Waffles

Frosting - Nightwatching

Condensation

Sticker

Headline - The Eyre Affair

Tea - The Princess and the Hound

Folder - Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep

Salt - The Princess and the Hound

Soap - Moby Dick

Pipes - Moby Dick

Tiles - The Eyre Affair

Raindrop - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Brick - Moby Dick

Gravel - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Cloud - The Eyre Affair

Teardrop - Howl's Moving Castle

Ring - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Speaker

Balloon

Basketball - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Marble - The Eyre Affair

Pestle - Howl's Moving Castle

Parsley - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Tracks - Nightwatching

Ice cube

Pouch - The Eyre Affair

Comforter - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Fridge - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Rainbow - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Highlighter

Bulb - Moby Dick

Earthquake - Hans Christian Andersen Complete Fairy Tales

Lamp - Moby Dick

License - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Diploma - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Gown - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Tunic

Wand - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Boots - The Girl Who Drank the Moon

Lighter - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Laptop - Nightwatching

Socks - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Cookies - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Foam - Hans Christian Andersen Complete Fairy Tales

Dolphin - If a Pirate I Must Be

Grass - Hans Christian Andersen Complete Fairy Tales

Helicopter - Look in the Mirror

Skyscraper - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Credit card - The Eyre Affair

Boat - Moby Dick

Camp - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Hat - Nightwatching

Invite - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Vampire - Dracula

Syringe - The Eyre Affair

Coat - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Switch - The Eyre Affair

Twig - Nightwatching

Bag - The Eyre Affair

Bulldozer

Couch - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Pizza - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Hot air balloon - The Emerald City of Oz

Keychain - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Charm - The Eyre Affair

Medicine - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Tweezers - The Last Murder at the End of the World

Fountain pen

Pirate - If a Pirate I Must Be

Treasure chest - House of Salt and Sorrows

Mist - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Instrument - Nightwatching

Carton

Moisturizer - Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Baloney

Fish - The Princess and the Hound

Sweater - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Cabinet - Moby Dick

Air - The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Popsicle

[pocketwei]

hiiiii, for the artist ask!! super curious about 6, 7 and 26 ~

HIIIII <333

6. Anything that might inspire you subconsciously (i.e. this horse wasn't supposed to look like the Last Unicorn but I see it) I'm nothing but a patchwork of all my inspirations........ everything I do is something else mashed up <3 although (and I don't mean to sound pedantic with that I swear jdjhfds) one of the most consistent influence in my art is probably Akira Kurosawa's films...... his sense of graphic and narrative composition and camera work is just unmatched, so shoutout to my man Akira <3

7. A medium of art you don't work in but appreciate Printing! Linocut, woodcut, and serigraphy especially. I've worked with lino a couple of times, but I'd really like to get into it properly. I adore the look of these techniques, and how analog the process it.

26. What's a piece that got a wildly different interpretation from what you intended I'm sorry ajdsjf you'll have no idea what I talk about but. The one with baby Crocodile from One Piece...... everyone assumed I had drawn his dad, when in actuality I have this very fleshed out headcanon based on the song Becoming A Man by A.S. Fanning, that he was taken out of the streets by some wealthy """philanthropist""" who ended up abusing him bc of course he would etc etc etc. So I guess this was kind of a father figure? But not his dad hahaha. This touches on insane theories and lore territory so I was not very keen to explain it all at first, but I just LOVE how much people have theorised and expressed themselves about this piece! Many people told me it even resonated with their experience!

[luminous-faerie]

wait this is such a fun idea (by @bookwermthings i think?)

tagging: @faffodil @smileytriceratops @blackhillverse @cozcat + anyone else (if u want to of course)

[rotationalsymmetry]

More trans march moments:

Music from the stage in Spanish. My body is mine.

A black person (trans masc? butch?) wearing pants with several inches of boxer shorts showing over the top. There may well have been other examples of non-white gender stuff, but this is one that I caught.

"Palestinian liberation IS Jewish liberation"

Chanting during the march: who keeps us safe/we keep us safe" (presumably as in, the cops don't)

A trans flag with the hammer and sickle on it (a classic)

Someone infinitely cooler than I am walking down the street in nothing but boots, a trans pride colored thong, a bandana tied around one leg (possibly a hanky code thing?) and a lot of bruising on their ass.

A fair bit of toplessness, not all of it by people with flat chests.

A trans pride flag made into a dress with a corset-like bodice with lacing

A black pleated skirt with trans pride colors showing in between the pleats

A patchwork pair of pants blatantly in ace pride colors, and another person wearing a dress that I'm pretty sure was intentionally ace colors as well.

Multiple people on roller skates or roller blades

A banner advocating for decriminalizing sex work

One person holding a leash attached to another person, presumably their partner. (They didn't especially seem to be seeking attention, nor did they get it. Sometimes this is what kink at pride events is, just...people doing their own thing for their own reasons, in an environment that lets them do it for once, and it's not a big deal.)

A trans flag with a crocodile or alligator (can I tell? no) on it with the words "fuck around and find out"

The float at the front of the march that's for people at the march who aren't up for walking it (or rolling it.)

[tellyreviews]

Bhagya Lakshmi 19th June 2025 Written Update: Odd Drifts

Bhagya Lakshmi 19th June 2025 Written Update: Odd Drifts. Bhagya Lakshmi Shocker: Malishka Confesses Her Crime, But Can We Trust Her Tears? Zee TV’s Bhagya Lakshmi is currently riding high on emotional turbulence, jaw-dropping twists, and a storyline that’s got fans scratching their heads — and not in a good way. The latest episode has turned the tables once again, with Malishka dropping a truth bomb that no one saw coming… or maybe didn’t want to see coming. Malishka’s Teary-Eyed Redemption or a Masterclass in Manipulation? Malishka, who once proudly wore her obsession for Rishi like a crown, is suddenly soaked in regret and guilt. She tells Kavya that Rishi used to be frustrated with Lakshmi, but ironically, ended up falling head over heels for her. According to Malishka, the biggest mistake she made was emotionally blackmailing Rishi into marrying Lakshmi — a move she now claims to deeply regret. She then launches into a full-blown breakdown, crying over her fate and begging Kavya to understand her pain. But fans aren’t buying it. For a character who has manipulated, framed, and lied at every step, this sudden change of heart feels more like a script twist than genuine growth. The Big Reveal: Malishka Killed Neelam?! In the most shocking turn of events, Malishka confesses to killing Neelam — yes, Neelam. She admits to Kavya that she deliberately cut the chandelier rope and framed Lakshmi for the murder. While Kavya is left stunned, viewers are left confused. Is this really happening? Or is this another round of “fake emotional confession” served with crocodile tears? New Maid, New Secrets – Mamta’s Greedy Alliance Just as the show starts delivering what fans had been demanding for ages — Malishka’s exposure — a new character, Mamta, is introduced. The new maid witnesses the crime confession and holds the key to unraveling Malishka’s lies. But just when we thought karma had finally RSVP'd, Malishka swiftly bribes Mamta into silence. What’s worse? Mamta accepts it like she was waiting for a bonus all along. Her character, barely introduced, already screams opportunistic gold-digger, diluting the entire build-up of a long-awaited expose. She agrees to keep the dark truth about Malishka and Anushka under wraps — leaving viewers furious at how easily the plot lets the villain off the hook once again. Fan Frustration Peaks: Why Is Rishi Flipping Sides? Fans are also questioning the bizarre shift in Rishi’s personality. From a man once tormented by Malishka's antics, he now seems stuck in a half-hearted redemption arc where he barely blinks at the mention of murder. The only consistent character left standing? Lakshmi. While the world around her spins into chaos, her dignity, strength, and clarity remain intact. What’s Really Going On? The makers seem to be rushing toward a wrap-up and giving Malishka a ‘redemption’ arc that feels more like a last-minute patchwork than a natural progression. Viewers have waited years for Malishka to be exposed and punished — instead, she’s bribing maids, crying on cue, and somehow still in control. It’s high time justice gets served. The audience deserves closure — not confusion. Stay tuned to Bhagya Lakshmi on Zee TV and catch the drama unfold, one chandelier twist at a time.

Bhagya Lakshmi 19th June 2025 Written Update: Odd Drifts

Read the full article

[n0stalgian0ir]

1970s Classic Hand Bag Styles Making a Comeback in 2025

Timeless designs always find their way back into the fashion scene. Recently, a wave of 1970s bag styles are coming back in 2025. From the hobo bag to the saddle bag making a strong return. The 1970s was a decade of self-expression & cultural changes, influencing fashion in remarkable ways. The early 1970s was all about the disco culture, bringing vibrant colors, metallic fabrics, and flashy accessories into the mainstream. Meanwhile the late 1970s embraced a more sophisticated & minimalist aesthetic, with structured handbags, and polished designs becoming fashionable. In this weeks post, we’ll be comparing some of the most stylish bags from the era to their modern day counterparts. Examining how their designs & functions have evolved. 

The Hobo Bags

The Hobo bag is known for its soft and slouchy crescent shape. It was originally crafted from leather, suede, and woven fabrics. Additional details include fringes, braided straps, or patchwork designs. Today’s hob bag incorporates a more minimalist and a structured design with a polished look, with less additional details.

Gucci 1970s Maroon Crocodile Jackie O Hobo Bag

CHANEL Large Hobo Bag

Suede Bags

The Suede Bags were a defining fashion accessory in the 1970s, known for their soft texture, earthy tones, and bohemian inspired design. Including additional fringes and patchwork. They were versatile allowing individuals to wear either as a casual & a formal wear. In 2025, the suede bags have retained popularity, with updated features such as bold colors, metallic details, and sustainable materials.

Vintage Boho Style Brown Suede Bag With Silver Details 

GAP Vegan Suede Slouchy Tote Bag

Saddle Bag

The Saddle bags gained attraction in the early to mid 1970s as a fashionable accessory. The saddle bag has a curve bottom, flap-over design and sturdy materials like leather. They are often colorized in earthy tones with minimalistic design. In the modern design, the saddle bag has resurfaced blending vintage charm with modern design elements. The bag maintains its classic silhouette, but incorporates updated features such as different textures, vibrant colors, and adjustable straps. Even though the saddle bag looks different it, still has it's older counterparts functionality and style.

COACH Vintage 1970s Coach Taupe Leather Saddle Bag Purse 

DIOR Mini Saddle Bag With Strap 

Macrame Bag

The Macrame bag is known for its intricate knotting techniques and bohemian aesthetic, which was a popular accessory in the early 1970s. Mainly handcrafted from natural materials like jute. With detailing's of fringe, beads, and earthy tones. These bags embodied the era’s emphasis on self-expression and craftsmanship. In 2025, the macrame bag has resurfaced as a fashion statement, combining vintage appeal and diverse colors.

Delicate Vintage 1970s Circle Macrame Weave Bag 

Hybris Macrame Hobo Bag in Multi Silk

Fringe Bags

The Fringe bags was another defining accessory in the early to mid 1970s, particularly during the height of the bohemian and hippie movement. The bag was often made from suede or leather. It featured long flowing fringes that added movement and a laid back stylish look. In 2025, fringe bags are making a strong comeback, with designers like Tory Burch reviving the trend. The hippie aesthetic, however today’s designs incorporates a more edgy style.

Hippie, Fringe, Wooden Beads, Vintage 1970s Brown Suede Crossbody Shoulder Bag. 

TORY BURCH Mini Fleming Feather Hobo Bag

The revival of 1970s handbag styles in 2025 reflects fashion’s enduring love for nostalgia, offering a fresh take on classic accessories. It’s fascinating to see how modern designs reimagine these vintage pieces, blending past influences with modern day aesthetics. Thank you for reading this weeks post! We'll see you guys soon in the next reads.

Additional Sources:

[robiest]

I want to get a "natural history" patchwork sleeve and I want a two-headed calf (don't come at me) but I can't tell if I should get the figures all facing the same direction? because my crocodile is length-wise on my forearm but I imagine getting the same direction on my bicep would look "sideways". but if they're all laid out the same direction I can put little "fig." icons below and it'll look like my arm is the worst textbook page imaginable.

[charitosbazaar]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage patchwork faux crocodile snake handbag shoulder crossbody 1970s bag OS.

[mindymaerenee]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Tous Handbag Leather Pony Hair Embossed Animal Print Patchwork Large Tote Purse.