#Tobacco Storage

[syoddeye]

big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too. 

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private. 

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers. 

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

~~

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious. 

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing. 

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook. 

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing. 

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss. 

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests. 

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps. 

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

~~

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.” 

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained. 

~~

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

[archangeldyke-all]

MORE RANDOM SEVIKA HEADCANONS PLS!! i love how you think

more?!!?? okay!!!! :D

men and minors dni

she'd only get on social media to follow you. she'd have to have you help her set up her profiles and stuff, never posts anything (unless she's reposting your pictures with a bunch of heart and flame emojis) and never logs on (unless she gets a notification that you've posted, because of course she has notifs on for you.)

old people LOVE her. she's like catnip to them. some of it is because she's an old grump already, but most of it's just 'cause she's quiet enough to listen to them yammer on about 'the good old days.'

she acts like she hates it-- but you always catch her shoveling your elderly neighbor's driveways during the winter and helping little old ladies cross the road. (she's part of the neighborhood book club too-- just a bunch of elderly ladies and sevika reading trashy smutty novels and laughing over spiked tea once a week. when it's your turn to host, sevika blushes bright red every time you bring her and her friends cookies and snacks: they're all cooing about how sweet of a couple you are, asking sevika when they can expect to have little feet running around the neighborhood)

she quits smoking when you get pregnant with little fucker.

one of her favorite ways to dodge a craving for a cig is to use her mouth for something much more satisfying-- like kissing you, or eating you out, or sucking hickeys into your skin...

every once in a while she'll still sneak a cigarette-- not because she misses it, but because she knows if she goes home smelling like tobacco you'll start peppering kisses on her mouth every ten minutes to make sure she's too distracted to smoke again.

she's sooo frugal. i think the reason she's wearing the same outfit for the whole show is she's just the type of person to be like "it still works?" while talking about her boxers that have a quarter sized hole near the crotch.

it's cute in some ways. she never throws out an old glass or jar-- most of your cups and storage is old pasta sauce and jam jars. each empty bottle of whiskey becomes a vase on a shelf or windowsill-- for little flowers, leaves, and weeds you and sevika always bring home to brighten up your space.

it's annoying in other ways. you have to secretly throw out her old socks and underwear once or twice a year, slowly replacing them with new socks-- but not too quick, or else she'll get suspicious as to why all her socks are hole-less.

she gets a little bit better at spending when little fucker comes around. she just can't say no to her own baby.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette

[ltwilliammowett]

From top to bottom we have a rum barrel from the 19th century, underneath is a square plate from the wreck of HMS Invincible which sank in 1758 off the Isle of Wight. This is the typical plate used by sailors to keep their food from slipping away.

Two pipe bowls underneath from the 18th or 19th century and the roll underneath is a tobacco roll. Tobacco leaves were sprinkled with rum by the sailor and wrapped in canvas and tightly wrapped with tarred rope to protect the leaves and save storage space.

Photo by me - International Maritime Museum Hamburg

[gydima]

Yeah, OK, I finally made a compilation of Con's scenes in The Last Seduction II (1999). It's a terrible movie and his character is a terrible human. (See warnings below.)

I can't stress enough what a sleazy, misogynist prick his character (Troy Fenton) is. He punches a pregnant lady in the face. He runs a phone sex line. He has that awful Caesar haircut that George Clooney inflicted on us in the 90s. But if you really wanted to see him in it, you can now do so without having to watch the whole movie!

Content warnings: These scenes include lots of bad language, use of the f-slur, ableist language, a gay character who's a walking caricature, phone sex (obviously), implied oral sex, horrifically uncomfortable looking chair sex, coke-snorting and so much smoking it's like the whole movie production was paid for by tobacco companies.

(Also, just a fun fact for people who did not use computers in the 90s: Floppy disks only had 1.44 MB of storage apiece! How far we've come.)

Also just for funsies, it wouldn't be a Con O'Neill project without at least one scene of him looking like he's in a sexually charged situation with another dude:

[erooca]

daycare pt. 2

ellie williams x reader

description: ellie williams is forced to work at a daycare. in part two, she gets more comfortable with her new job and with you. 2.5k words

omg im so happy a lot of people liked the first one!!! i hope u guys like this one too. i love writing ab ellie and am open to any suggestions you may have!!

part one: https://www.tumblr.com/erooca/724971592933834752/daycare

ever since you met ellie, you started seeing her more around your campus. every once in a while, y’all would go study together or maybe grab a coffee, but she’s never invited you back to her dorm before, at least not until right now.

like the gentleman she is, she held the door open and you walked in, instantly getting hit with the scent of ellie. specifically a nice, light scent of tobacco vanilla, which felt very on point for the freckled girl.

her dorm was small, smaller than yours since she had one to herself, while you shared with roommates. all that was in here was a bed, a desk, a mini fridge, storage, and a door leading to a bathroom.

her back wall was filled with little sketches everywhere. you knew she liked to draw, but you had no idea it meant this much to her. you took in all the drawings, examining them one by one. you see sketches of horses, dinosaurs (no surprise there), sunsets and just a lot of landscapes in general, and you see a few of an older looking man. you assume it’s her father.

ellie is watching you nervously as you examine all her drawings. she was scared as shit that you were finally in her dorm, but she also had a tingling feeling in her heart because you were surrounded completely by her and only her at the moment. she could get used to this.

it had been two weeks since her first day at the daycare. for two whole weeks, her thoughts have been plagued by you. she was loving it. she loved spending a full eight hour shift with you. just to see you, she would even come in five or ten minutes early.

she wasn’t very secretive about her crush on you. she did a lot of things for you. if you went on break earlier than her, she’d pick you up something to eat and would forbid you from paying her back. she would also buy things you had mentioned you needed for the classroom. one time, she even brought you a candy bar since she noticed you weren’t as energetic as your usual self.

even after all these gracious gifts, you were oblivious. it drove ellie insane. she really didn’t want to have to confess it out loud to you. she was really hoping you’d just take the hint and ask her out yourself. ellie has a bit of a hard time with rejection and she can’t imagine pouring out her feelings to you just for you to tell her you didn’t feel the same about her.

“hey.. is this one of king’s drawings?” you said, pointing at a colorful and bright picture. it had two stick figures with a hell of a lot of scribbles.

“oh yeah, he said he drew it for me,” ellie smiled, reliving the memory. king had told her it was a drawing of her and him hanging out together. ellie asked if she could keep the drawing and of course king said yes.

“that’s so sweet,” you smiled brightly. you were so happy ellie already made a strong connection with one of the students. the best part about working with kids is seeing the way you influence them and make them better humans.

ellie nodded.

“so, did ya’ wanna order pizza and watch a movie?” ellie asked.

“that sounds like a perfect way to relax after a week of working.”

you guys settle onto ellie’s bed (since there’s no couch) watching a random movie on netflix waiting for the pizza.

it was a really good night. you wish you could spend every night like this.

the next monday, you were eagerly waiting for ellie to enter the classroom door. you were so excited to see her. you guys had such a great time on saturday, and you couldn’t wait to be in ellie’s presence again.

when the door opened, all the children screamed out ellie’s name, getting up to go give her a hug.

“ellie!! guess what my mom did this weekend!!” a blonde girl named charlie asked.

“i went to the park yesterday ellie!!” pippa told her.

“hey! hey! ellie!” another kid called for attention.

ellie laughed and listened to each of the kids one by one. it warmed your heart so much seeing your students gathered around ellie, telling her stories and giving her hugs. you felt like you could burst from the warmth that spread throughout your body.

when she was finished, she got up and locked eyes with you. she greeted you and that was when you noticed two starbucks cups in her hands. she sheepishly handed one of them out to you.

“ellie, you shouldn’t have done this,” you said, taking the cup from her even though it contradicted your words.

“gotta get a coffee for my favorite coworker,” her lips rose into a half smile.

you brought the drink up to your lips and sipped. you’ve had starbucks countless times, but this one tasted different. it tasted amazing and you know it’s because it was ellie who bought it for her. you thanked her.

the day continued on as usual. while you were outside, you watched as the kids ganged up on ellie to chase her and take her to “jail”. you watched her run, taking the game a little too seriously. it made you think how she’d probably survive a zombie apocalypse, if it ever happened.

she easily got cornered and king tugged her hand, leading her to the fence. some of the other kids did a locking motion, acting as though ellie was chained to the fence.

“don’t get out!!!” one of the boys, william, said.

you made your way over, innocently.

“how’s jail?” you ask.

“oh, ha ha,” she said sarcastically, then her eyes lit up, as if she had a great idea, “hey.. unlock me!” she said, glancing at her hands.

“you do realize you aren’t actually locked in, right?” you ask, laughing.

ellie scoffs. you follow through with her request anyway, motioning an unlocking gesture. then ellie bolted.

“HEY! they let ellie out! get both of them!” one of the kids yelled.

now both of you were running for your lives from a big group of three year olds.

once you guys came inside, you had lunch, and then nap time. when the kids woke up, you opted to do floor toys and just keep them all on the colorful alphabet rug.

you sat with the children, watching them build with the duplo legos. they were each having you look at what they made. you praised them each time, suggesting they add a different colored block or make it taller. soon, you felt a bit tired so you laid down onto the carpet.

this turned out to be a bad idea when half of your students rolled on top of you, leaving you no room to even move. all you could hear was the sounds of your three year olds giggling, as they tortured you.

you called out for help from ellie but was met with the response of laughter coming from her.

wow. your own friend. you thought up your revenge plan quickly, “everyone!!!” you shouted, catching their attentions, “go give ellie a kiss!!”

“what? no- no,” but it was too late. the kids ran up to her, giving her kisses on her arms and hands. a few even gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“payback,” you smirk at her, watching as she’s trying to control the kids now.

“oh you’re evil,” she responds, playfully narrowing her eyes at you.

the rest of the day went by fast, but this time ellie wasn’t leaving when you got down to less kids. maria had asked that you go through all the cleaning duties with her that are required for closing. you agreed, obviously excited to spend even more with her. you decided to wait until all the children were gone to start teaching it. it would allow you to give ellie your full focus.

all the kids were called to leave one by one and soon it was 6:00 and all the kids had went home. it was just ellie and you in the room. you could already feel the intense butterflies moving through you. god, your crush had gotten bad.

ignoring the feeling in your stomach that was so extreme it almost hurt, you showed ellie the closet.

“so we keep the vacuum and broom in here, and all of the cleaning chemicals. there’s bleach water, soapy water, floor spray, and a bathroom cleaner,” you explain to ellie.

you went inside to pull out the vacuum but with a mighty tug, the vacuum wouldn’t come loose. it was stuck in between the children’s mats. you said a naughty word but kept trying.

“here, let me help,” ellie said from outside the closet, stepping inside.

“wait! don’t let the door—“

click

“shut..”

“oh fuck. did i just lock us in here?” ellie asked, wide eyed as soon as she heard the click of the lock.

“uhh.. yeah. you did. it’s alright, i’m sure someone will find us soon,” you said, hopeful.

the closet wasn’t super tight, but it definitely wasn’t spacious. you were a little too close to ellie for comfort. you could already feel your heart racing. someone better find you guys soon, or you might have a heart attack.

“i’m gonna see if maybe i can like.. jam the door open,” you said, trying to switch spots with ellie so you were closer to the door. you couldn’t ignore the way your skin touched hers in an effort to get across.

you started wiggling the handle with all your might, trying to move it up, down, and side to side. it wasn’t budging.

“try moving it like this,” ellie had found her way right behind you. she rested her hand on the door handle where yours was. your pinkies overlapped and ellie started jiggling the handle too.

you looked to your side and noticed she had her other hand resting on the door, for support, to the right of your head. she was basically leaning over you, trapping you within her arms.

“yeah we’re not getting out of this any time soon,” ellie states, letting her hand rest on the door knob.

you finally turned around to face her and it both hit you how close you both had gotten. your back was against the door and she was right in front of you, only maybe a foot away.

ellie felt a dust of pink wash over her cheeks as she realized how close she was to you. she hadn’t meant to position you like this, but she wasn’t complaining.

ellie was keeping her eyes locked with yours and neither of you guys made an attempt to move. you could hear as her breath was moving more rigid.

it was becoming too much for you, and you glanced down, forcing your head to look at the ground. you tried to relax your heart that seemed as though it was clawing out of your chest.

a soft hand rose to the bottom of your chin, and pulled it upwards, forcing you to look back at ellie.

“don’t.” ellie whispered, not taking her eyes off of you.

you don’t think you’ve ever desired someone as much as you desired ellie right now. you were so close to grabbing her face, giving her as many kisses as she deserved, but instead you stood still, frozen under ellie’s dominant position.

ellie took the hand from your chin and moved it to gently tuck a wisp of hair behind your ear, “wanna see your pretty face…” she let her hand rest on her cheek.

your whole face turned a blushy color at her words. how was this girl you met only a few weeks ago making you sink into a puddle?

“ellie..” you breathed out, scanning her face, trying to decipher any thought she might have. from up this close, you could see how irregular her pattern of freckles were. how they were different shades of the same color. you could count them all from this position, and you happily would.

“can i please kiss you?” ellie asked, in almost a puppy dog voice.

you didn’t trust yourself with your voice right now (hell, you’d probably accidentally propose to her), so you gave a sweet nod.

she took a step closer to you, bodies mere inches from colliding, she watched your eyes and glanced to your lips.

“are you sure?” she asked, wanting to confirm that this is genuinely what you wanted. her eyes went back up to yours and she searched them.

instead of answering, you moved forward closing the gap. your soft lips met with her chapped ones. ellie made a noise of surprise at your sudden movement, but easily got comfortable, kissing you back.

she pulled back after a moment, but stayed close to your face.

“holy fuck,” she breathed out, trying to regain any sense of herself she had previously.

before you had a chance to say anything, she reconnected her lips with yours. she placed her hands on your hips, pulling you in closer. you crossed your hands around her neck. you don’t ever think you’ve felt this kind of rush before. all you knew was that you wanted ellie closer. you wanted to be surrounded by her completely. now that you’ve kissed her once, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop kissing her.

she slowly started kissing along your jawline, and then trailing her lips down your neck. you giggling at the sensation from the way it tickled your skin.

ellie liked the way your throat felt under her mouth. she continued to leave soft kisses all on you. you could feel your hunger for her grow stronger and stronger.

just then the door swung open, leaving you to fall on the ground, and ellie tumbling over you. you both groaned in pain.

maria stood in front of you two’s lying bodies. she cleared her throat awkwardly. it was obvious she saw what you guys were doing before you fell.

“i’m not gonna talk about what i just saw, but how many times have i told you not to let that door shut??” maria said, only acting angry to wash away the awkward feeling of walking in on her (basically) niece making out with one of her best workers.

“it was my fault, maria. i let the door close,” ellie said, taking the blame. she stood up from the ground, and then held out a hand to you. you gladly took it and she pulled you up.

maria sighed in frustration, “don’t let it happen again, and get this room clean. we lock up in 15 minutes.”

as soon as she leaves the room, you erupt in giggles, thinking of how shocked maria’s face was. ellie joined your laughter, just now realizing how silly the situation had become.

knowing there wasn’t any time left to dilly-dally, you two sped cleaned the room.

you hoped the next couple days would be full of more closet kisses, more of those loving looks ellie had given you today, or even wishful touches throughout the hours.

unknown to your knowledge, ellie was planning on giving you every single one of those for the rest of her life.

[katsukikitten]

Clip That - Katsuki's Route

Chapter One - Marlboro Red

Another loud thump pulls Bakugou from his sleep with a deep inhale and a long, exasperated growl. He had finally fallen asleep and with his phone reading eight am he'd only gotten three hours.

Which was never enough for the hot headed man, needing upwards of eight to be a decent human being. All his life Bakugou was teased for going to bed early and still being slow to rise but no one realized how long it took him to fall asleep. How hard the insomnia hit as his mind replayed memories in his head to analyze like clear film on what he could have done better.

So he was about to make this everybody's problem.

He doesn't understand why the fuck there is so much noise happening so early. Normally he and Kirishima would be up and at the gym while Kaminari slept until eleven or noon, depending on when Kirishima woke him up. So why the hell could Katsuki hear Pikachu's laugh echoing around the house.

He digs his heel into his eye, doing nothing for the deep bags under deadly bromine. Snarling his lip as he thinks a cigarette and maybe a coffee sound godly right now. Slapping on some deodorant, a clean shirt and boxers before sliding into his black jeans. Patting at his hoodie from last night, greedily grabbing for the red and white cardboard box. Flipping up the top and when he finds nothing but flecks of tobacco and not a single rolled stick he crushes it with a hiss. Tearing his room apart in search of that stupid fruity vape Denks had gotten him hooked on, hoping that at least a hit of that nicotine would placate him until he could get the kind that clotted his lungs much more obviously.

Despite his frantic searching, Bakugou really could quit any time he wanted. His nationals and championship trophies in MMA said as much when he had quit cold turkey for two years. Kirishima convinced Bakugou to train with him at 16 and the pair spent the better part of their youth fenced in a cage, climbing to the top quickly. Ripe age of 18 and Bakugou had been heavily decorated, it wasn't until he became a world champ at the cusp of his 20th birthday that he was satisfied. When the reporters asked why he was retiring at such a young age, the ash blonde with a split lip, the scar still visible today, gave a wolfish grin.

"I just want a fuckin cigarette."

And God damn it he was going to have one now. Giving up on his vape he leaves his room, the one across from his, the door open and a few pink storage boxes stacked up. Bakugou snarls his lip, did Denki finally allow his chat to decorate one of the two guest rooms like he said?

It didn't matter what that dumb ass friend of his did, it was Denki's house. Bakugou knew how hard Kaminari worked at being a successful streamer. Dominating casual and competitive games but never going on to join an esports team because to Kaminari, talking to chat was everything. Bakugou didn't get it but he never questioned it either, to each their fuckin own.

He just remembers the electric blonde asking if they wanted to live with him, since Kirishima, although still fighting, was heading more in the direction of health and training streams. And Bakugou was and always will be Kirishima's plus one. Not that Kaminari didn't want Bakugou here, he was excited, even if the ash blonde didn't know what he wanted to conquer next Denki thought he smelled opportunity. The professional steamer knowing all he had to do was give Bakugou a little nudge in the form of a few well placed videos and make him build a PC.

Although Bakugou will never admit how well Kaminari played him, at least never aloud.

Bakugou's bedroom is to the left of the stairs, across from the upstairs guest bedroom, having chosen this room because it was furthest from those two block heads across the balcony and he has his own bathroom. Well unless their were guests over.

Going down the curved steps with ease but stopping halfway when he sees Denki, Kirishima and you standing in the foyer.

You smile widely at the men, giving them your gratitude although Bakugou can tell that you're a little uncomfortable. Not because you were going to be living in a house full of men but most likely from your new and overly helpful roommates. The men holding pink and black bags while you were only allowed to carry some ugly cat stuffed animal that you could just fit your arms around.

"Thanks guys, really but I promise I'm not fragile."

"Oh we know." Kirishima beams, holding your fifty pound duffle filled with your gaming equipment, "It's rude not to help."

"Besides this is nothing to Eiji, you saw how he took that mattress up by himself!" Denki claps Kirishima on his sculpted back harshly but the man doesn't even flinch. He just puffs his chest out in pride, long red hair with his dark roots showing falls into his face. You give another polite although clipped smile. They were really too kind and you were entirely grateful the only issue was you just had an incurable case of hyper independence so any time you received any sort of help, it made your skin crawl.

Before you can try to pry at least one bag from the men turned pack mule a dark voice cuts through the air.

"Fuck is she doin here?"

Kaminari visibly stiffens as Kirishima pouts.

"Come on man, don't be like that. We agreed to have another gamer roommate. She plays a lot of casual games!" Kaminari is excited again by the end of his sentence, the possibilities and your potential made him feel as if electricity was dancing in his veins.

"Yea when I agreed to that shit I thought it was gonna be Zero from Deku's team." Bakugou growls, really wishing he had a smoke to place between his lips.

"That's your team too ya know." Kirishima adds and Bakugou scoffs.

"I didn't agree to some discordkitten ." He spits your username like venom, the disgust worming its way under your skin and further poisoning your heart. Your lip snarls, crossing your arms since he obviously knew you, or at least of you if he knew your twitch tag.

"Ya know I wouldn't expect someone as boring as you to get it." You glare up at him, a cruel smile on your lips, "What's it like to be so one dimensional, Katsuki? I just can't even imagine how dull you truly are or maybe the word I'm looking for is daft? Since you don't even get a joke that's so simple to understand."

"Don't fuckin use my first name." He snarls, bromine eyes burning into your skin.

"I'm just making it clear that it's you I'm speaking to. Ya know since you have a little trouble with nuance."

"At least I don't have to be a fake bitch for views. Ya act all cute when you're the furthest thing from it." Bakugou's eyes dull as he glares, exhaustion and the gnawing hunger for nicotine pulling at his limbs, forcing him down the stairs.

"Guys guys!" Denki stands between the two of you, literally. Making gestures with his hands as he starts to sweat, "Come on, Katsuki, be civil."

"Suck my dick." He says, bumping his shoulder against Denki and then Kirishima, who gives a stern glare. He grabs his keys and makes his way towards his black coupe, no doubt needing to drive now instead of walking to the closest gas station.

"Ah I know he's an asshole but underneath all that he's a really nice guy. You just gotta get to know him." Kirishima reassures you and you try to keep the heat out of your gaze when you look up at him. He's smiling so wide his eyes are closed and you're wondering just how the fuck two of the kindest, most respectable guys ended up housing with a man so toxic he got banned from gaming platforms almost weekly, not that that ever stopped him.

"Let's set your things down and we'll give you a tour and the house rules." Denki climbs up the stairs two at a time and Kirishima follows only after you. Climbing the steps in your dark leggings and oversized black cardigan you wore for comfort. You were already a bit nervous, knowing people would think you were using Kaminari, stringing him along to better propel your own success. When really all you wanted to do was enjoy what you did for a living.

Denki was the one who reached out to you, having accidently found your page. Finding himself unable to click away as if he felt he was gaming with an old friend he hadn't seen in a while. String lights gave the shot of you a warm and cozy glow. Legs tucked under you as you sat on your floor on a faux sheepskin in an Eevee onesie, all the eeveelutions sitting dutifully at your side as they supervised your game play.

Curiosity always second nature to Denki, he wonders if Eevee was your favorite and why you liked her so much. He donates $10.00 just to find out and to this day he still hasn't forgotten how your face lit up. How your smile made one creep onto his own face, voice laced with excitement as you answers.

"Gengar and Eevee are my favorites. I love Eevee so much because she can be whatever she wants to be! She just has to trust herself!"

After that he watched your entire four hour stream before he dms you to chat. Some long discord call, half a year of friendship and a three hour flight later you find yourself standing in the middle of your new bedroom. It felt so surreal, like a dream and well it was a dream to live each day as you pleased. Playing games and chatting with people without much worry or care in the world.

A dream of stability you never allowed yourself to have. At least not more than a blip in your consciousness before you passed out just to rise early for a job you loathed.

Not to mention the generosity Denki had, giving you the first three months free until you got on your feet. You refused the offer time and time again until he finally said you'd take his offer and could pay him back by doing the house budget.

Only then did you finally agree.

"We can get paint tonight before you're all set up, whatever color you want." Denki smiles, gently setting your stuff down onto the bed that sat in the middle of the room on a plain platform frame, "Kirishima and I are the fastest painters in the west."

"But our lines aren't as clean." Kirishima laughs as you look around the room.

Denki makes quick work of showing you upstairs. Your room was, unfortunately, across the hall from Bakugou's, next to the ash blonde's room the two of you forced to share a decent sized bathroom that gave some semblance of separation as the door only opened up to the hall. Unlike on the other end of the house where Denki and Kirishima's bedrooms were connected by a jack and jill bathroom. The largest room just in front of the winding stairs is the laundry and storage room that Kirishima turned into a partial home gym.

He leads you back into the foyer, when facing the stairs to your left was supposed to be the living room that Denki turned full arcade. So many pinball machines and arcade boxes that one or two made their way into the foyer. Almost blocking the half bath and the view into the family room.

Hell, he even had an air hockey table in the center of his homemade arcade. To your right was the dining room, simple enough but it was obvious it was mostly unused as he stepped into the nook of the kitchen. Sizable round table that could seat six sat just before the long island with a waterfall countertop. A few barstools under the edge of it. Large pantry and door to the garage to your right and to your left you could see into the family room. It wasn't small by any means. Holding a huge sectional couch, giant TV mounted on the wall and with a door that leads to the gorgeous patio and pool.

Holy shit this man was fuckin loaded

It's all you can think as he guides your through the house, truly a lap in luxury. And although it was essentially a frat house, it was kept clean and well maintained. Few decorations aside from neon lights in the shape of Denki's waifus.

"Oh and this is the master bedroom. I wanted it to be fair so I leave this for guests." Denki grabs the back of his neck, it was true. He did want the home to feel fair and that he wasn't some ass hole land lord.

But he also couldn't admit to himself that he didn't deserve such a nice room, at least not yet.

It was large enough to fit a king sized bed and still have a small seating area. The en suite was the kind you dreamed about. Huge soaking tub, large shower and a walk in closet bigger than your old bedroom across the country.

"Your house really is lovely." You comment, marveling over the family room again. The view to the pool and mountain side is your favorite thing so far.

"Well it's your house now too! So make yourself at home. Oh just some quick things." He hands you the house rules to go over yourself later while he chats, "Bakugou does the cooking so be sure to tell him what you like to eat. He makes a big list that I go grocery shopping for with the supervision of Kirishima, maybe you could tag along this weekend so you can get some snacks. Groceries and necessities come out of the house account so go nuts. And trying to get your groceries on your own is a no."

He gives you a stern look at least stern for Denki before rattling on about a few important rules.

"Any questions?"

"No, honestly I'm just glad to be here." You admit and both of them smile wide as they say in unison.

"Welcome home!"

[sukunastits]

Weaponized Incompetence

Weaponized Incompetence 2/?

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Reader

Warnings: none? other than my near endless supply of stupid shit that can be said to make men think you’re stupid. Sfw

Part 1

You were entirely blameless for the next incident. Truly, you had been minding your business, avoiding responsibilities like any good non-commissioned officer. Secluded in one of the far off storage rooms on the west side of the complex, counting boxes of paper towels - far enough out of the way that Sgt. MacTavish had to have come looking for you, specifically. Adorable man, you thought giddily, watching him situate himself in the metal fold out chair next to you. 

He wasn’t a tall man, maybe the shorter end of average, but you figured he made up for it by being the general size of a wide-load tractor trailer. Which was to say, when he slid the chair - legs scraping against the concrete ground - closer to you, he invaded like the tide. “Listen, lass,” he started, like you couldn’t smell his cologne over the stale, dusty air. Tobacco and vanilla, maybe. A little slutty, combined with the eyes and the facial hair and the accent. 

Maybe you were just projecting. 

“Ah get that you come from tae city,” he continued, phone in one hand while he braced the other one on the back of your chair. A part of you wondered if you should be worried; cornered in a far off room by a commanding officer wasn't the best start to happily ever after, but whatever. You were here to drive him up a metaphorical wall, not a white picket fence. “And ye probably never had tae deal with farm animals, but ye can’t go ‘roond spoutin’ nonsense like the other day.” 

Was he still on that? You had hit him with that well before the weekend, and he hadn’t wasted time with cornering you. It was Monday. God, you thought, I am blessed to live rent free in the Scottish Highlands. 

He wiggled the phone entreatingly. 

Staring back from the screen was Google, “are eggs dairy” typed into the search bar. Pressing your lips together, you slanted a sideways glance at him. He looked back, expectant. 

The nice thing would be to let him win this, you knew. A little tee hee, so sorry sergeant, let it die down before you hit him with some other out of pocket shit. But you hadn’t gotten this far in life by letting men win, even pretty ones. 

Especially the pretty ones. 

“Ohh,” you breathed, nodding to yourself like you’d had a world breaking - egg cracking, even - revelation. Sgt. MacTavish smiled, broad shoulders relaxing as he leant back, dipping back out of your personal space. “I get it now.”

“An easy mistake,” he placated. You both knew it wasn’t. 

“No, yeah. You still think birds are real.”

An atom bombed dropped slower than his smile did; there one moment, gone the next. Total annihilation. You would have to play this one carefully. Not laughing hysterically would be a herculean effort, but so worth it. 

“What tae fu -”

“No let me explain,” you cut in, flapping your hand at the wrist. It annoyed men, for some reason, a floppy wrist. Like a weak handshake, it triggered their little neanderthal brain. “I get that it sounds weird out of context. But like, okay. So in the, like, 1970s, in America? They had this President, right, Ronald Reagan?” Wrong. “And he, like, hated birds. So he formed the CIA,” made even funnier by the Task Force tangentially being CIA controlled, “And had them capture and kill all the wild birds, right? Except obviously people would have noticed if all the birds just disappeared, so he had them replaced with robots.” 

You stared at him for a moment, waiting to see if he was keeping up. He stared back, lips pressed together and nostrils flared. “Or androids? I don’t really know. Are they different? I think they’re synonymous. Anyways, he had robot birds made so that he could spy on the American people during the Cold War. And, like. He couldn’t do it with domesticated food birds, so he had them sterilized. And cows evolved to make eggs because birds couldn’t.” 

You nodded, and smiled, empty. Vacant. Not a thought in this head. “So I guess you used to be right,” you finished, patting his arm like it was a consolation. 

MacTavish opened his mouth, closed it. Let out a breath through his nose like an angry bull. For a moment, you wondered if this was it. Was this really all it took? The Birds Aren’t Real Conspiracy? You had so many more. GMOs. Bananas. You could be a very convincing Flat Earther. Buffalos. God, you loved the buffalo bit. 

“Who,” he stopped. Started again. “Who told ye that?” 

“My Governments teacher,” you answered immediately. “Mr. Schumacher. I loved his class, he taught us soo much.” 

“He lied.” MacTavished butted in, voice low. You bet he sounded like a blender in the morning, all gravely bass. You wanted to coo at him, at how cute he was, all ruffled. Instead, you did your best sure, Jan and shrugged. 

“I mean, I think a teacher would know better than the internet, but if you say so, sergeant,” you agreed placidly.

Stressed, he rubbed a hand over his mohawk. And then, phone still in hand, he pointed at you, and left. 

You watched him go, agreeable with the way his jeans sat on his ass. You wondered if he ever wore those bedazzled Buckle jeans. You wondered if you could ever get him into a pair either way. The door slammed behind him, shaking a layer of dust off the ceiling tiles. After a moment, when you were sure he wouldn’t be coming back, you tossed your package of paper towels into the nearest box. 

You needed a new hiding spot. 

[comphy-and-cozy]

Did I spend this morning rereading A Dream Come True again?

Yep. Zero regrets.

I wouldn’t object to peek ins on them if the urge ever hit to write more on this just saying 👀🫶🏻

this is very sweet and I am so very glad that you enjoyed it! because, well...

mastermind - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f) - A Dream Come True universe

Word Count: ~1.8K

Author’s Note: I’m sorry Ghost lol

Warnings: references to sex, implied smut, language, the usual banter; otherwise, just some ~relationship development~ and an update on my fav duo ♥️🐙

link to series masterlist

January 2024

The email lies buried beneath the myriad of holiday marketing newsletters you ignored and let build up in your inbox. Sales that have long since passed, codes like ‘HOLIDAY20’ and ‘HAPPYNYE’ expired from stores you shopped at once and never unsubscribed from the marketing. 

It’s a Wednesday evening, and you’re sitting on the couch doing your best to mass delete the influx of unread emails from the past three months after receiving the notification that your storage is running low. A knit blanket covers your legs, and the scent of tobacco and teakwood drifts to you from the candle on your coffee table.

“What’re you giggling about over here?”

JT’s low timbre echoes behind you, the sound followed by the soft padding of his feet as he approaches the couch with a bowl of popcorn. His favorite nighttime snack, you’ve grown to learn over the past three months, so you started stocking your pantry with a box. 

You aren’t sure exactly when things became so domestic and natural with him, only blissfully aware of the steady thump of your heart in your chest when his texts come through or the warmth that fills you whenever he kisses you. You’ve managed to get comfortable with his presence, craving it the same way you crave a sweet snack before bed, but you’re still adjusting to the idea that this is real. That he’s still here, returning to your bed, dutifully—eagerly—after every road trip. 

Every time, he’ll sigh, find solace in the warmth of your arms, press his lips against your skin. He’ll fuck you, God, he’ll fuck you; somehow never failing to reveal a new place inside of you that blooms pleasure. Your body has never sang the way it does for JT, expertly coaxing melodies out of you that you didn’t know you knew. 

But sometimes, he just lays, content to feel your warmth against his, head resting heavy on your chest until his breathing becomes steady and sleep takes him. His expression softens, hair falling out of its styled coif, wrinkles settling into the lines of his t-shirt—if he hasn’t already removed it. In those moments, you defy the heaviness of your eyelids to simply gaze at him, memorizing the shape of him in your bed, curled up against you underneath the blankets that will forever be embedded with his scent. 

You can’t decide which you like more.

“I just got an email inviting me to the Toast of Hockeytown event in February,” you reply, accepting the weight of him on the cushion beside you before you steal a kernel from his bowl—your bowl. “‘Fans can look forward to enjoying live entertainment, culinary delights, drinks, and desserts while mingling with the entire Red Wings team, coaches, select alumni, and other local celebrities.’”

JT hums. “Sounds like an event you can’t miss. A chance to meet them?”

“I better make sure I wear my nicest dress. One that really shows off the goods, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” he agrees, eyes flicking to your chest—though it’s covered by a t-shirt, you can feel the heat from his gaze. “Think maybe you’ll get to fuck one of them?”

Laughter bubbles out of your mouth and you shove his arm at his crass joke. “It would be a good opportunity to try and snag someone’s number.”

“Oooh, maybe Larkin? He’s dreamy.”

“Nah, he’s too popular,” you shake your head. “Can’t aim so high as the captain. Gotta go for lower-hanging fruit. Maybe one of the new guys. Ghosty, you think?”

There’s the briefest flash in JT’s eyes that you would’ve missed had you not been watching for it. You catch it, though, smug with yourself that you’ve one-upped him at his own game. 

“Heard his dick is small.” He feigns indifference, but you see the glint in his eyes. Your favorite eyes. 

“You really want me thinking about Ghost’s dick?” 

JT shrugs. “I’m the one sitting on your couch eating your popcorn. And I’m gonna be the one in your bed later.”

Check mate. The nonchalance paired with his confidence makes you weak—he’s right, and he knows it. You could have every one of them fawning over you, and you’d still pick him, every time. Once the joke falls and the silence settles, the sound of the Brooklyn 99 intro plays softly on the television in front of you.

As your mouse hovers over the ‘delete’ button, you’re reminded of the similar event you attended over two years ago—the one that led you to the man sitting beside you. You reminisce on how you spent days deciding on what to wear, even going so far as to get your hair blown out beforehand. Looking back, you’re a bit embarrassed at the effort, but as you feel the warmth of JT’s leg pressed against yours, you think to yourself it was worth it.

“I came to Denver specifically to meet you,” you blurt out, then freeze when you realize what you’ve just admitted to. Your heart thuds in your chest, the sound almost deafening in your ears as he pauses, three kernels of popcorn in his fingers halfway to his mouth.

Testing a glance at him, you’re surprised to see him pop each puff between his lips, one by one, taking his time chewing. Then, “I know.”

“You know?”

“You kn—the entire time?”

“The entire time.”

A sigh accompanied by a tidal wave of relief washes over you. If he knew, and was still here, it couldn’t have bothered him that much. “Do I want to know how?”

“Jus’ know,” he says with another shrug. Then your favorite glimmer shines in the warm chocolate of his eyes, the kind when he’s really feeling the banter. You love him like this. “You’re a bit of a whore when you’re desperate.”

“Joseph!”

An auburn eyebrow raises and he smirks. “You really gonna argue with me on that?”

Your silence is an answer enough, accompanied by flits of how he’s had you begging him on more than one occasion; you resist the urge to smack him at the smug ‘I told you so’ expression on his stupid, handsome face. “You’re not… creeped out?”

“Told you already,” he says around another mouthful of popcorn. “M’flattered. I think it’s cute.”

Heat simmers in your cheeks as you tell yourself you have no reason not to believe him; he’s still there, still eating popcorn out of the faded, red bowl you got from Target when you moved into your dorm at U of M. 

It’s another few moments before he says something that catches you off guard. 

“I came for you.” 

There’s an air of hesitation about him, like maybe he’s been mulling it over as he finishes the last few bites of popcorn before offering you the remaining kernels in the bottom of the bowl. A peace offering, maybe, like he wants to even the playing field now that you’ve confessed something so private. Funny how this isn’t the first time this has happened to you with regards to him.

“What?”

“That night. At Tin Roof.” The second time we met.

“I know you did. You were inside me.”

JT smiles at your snark, a spark glinting in his eye as if he’s replaying the memory in his head. “No, I mean… I suggested that bar to the guys because I knew you were there.”

“What are you talking about?”

He clears his throat. “After we met—the first time—I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to find you. I kept waiting to get a tagged photo from you, but never did, so… I started combing through my followers.”

Your eyebrows raise, heart swelling at the idea of making such an impact on him that he’d go through such an effort to find you. 

“It took me awhile, but I finally found you,” he continues. “Imagine my disappointment when you were private.”

You hum, waiting with baited breath to hear the rest of his story. The memory of posting the photo of you and him comes to mind, his hand placement just visible on your side that gives you butterflies to this day, despite him having touched you far more intimately since then.

“I’d check back once in awhile whenever you crossed my mind. Still, private. I even made a habit of checking my DM’s in case you decided to message me after we won the Cup.”

“Hard to get,” you tease with a smile. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

His eyes glint again, acknowledging your quip—because you sure fucking have kept him on his toes. “And then I got a call from Steve Yzerman.”

The breath in your lungs stands still.

“We talked—and I loved what he had to say, don’t get me wrong; Detroit really had been on my radar for awhile—but after I hung up the phone, I went to check your page. Figured it couldn’t hurt. And you weren’t private anymore. And, by all accounts, you appeared to be single.”

You’re doing your best to keep your jaw from resting on the floor, absorbing his candid confession with no shortage of disbelief. Part of you wonders if this is a long, elaborate play to tease you for how you lusted after him.

“Saw the picture of us,” he adds. “And the caption, too.”

A grin breaks out onto your face at his reference. It had been funny at the time, so far-fetched, unthinkable that the contrast between then and now hits you in the chest. Call me JT xoxo, it had said.

“Thought you said I wasn’t the reason you signed.”

“You were… encouraging,” he says with a smirk. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart down to your body. You don’t expect he meant for you to miss it.

As tempted as you are to take that concupiscent gaze and use it to quell the heat that’s simmering between your legs, you can’t resist probing just a little more to see what else you can glean out of him. “So… the bar?” 

“Oh, right,” he blinks, like he forgot he was telling a story; you can practically see the dirty images conjured in his eyes as they float away. “Pretty straightforward, really—before we went out that night, I checked your story, on a whim. You tagged the bar.”

“Joseph Taylor Compher, were you stalking me?”

For the first time, a tinge colors the pretty ivory of his cheeks and his expression turns… bashful? “Does it count as stalking if it’s on your public page?”

“I’m sure the police might have something different to say,” you shoot back with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s only if I harassed you,” JT says. “And I’m pretty confident I did quite the opposite of that.”

He nudges your knee playfully, and you roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you blew my mind, whatever, whatever.”

“You blew mine too, baby,” he adds, the tinge of huskiness in his voice undeniable. “But you knew that.”

And later, after he’s thoroughly appreciated your travel efforts to Denver, when your cheek is pressed against the warm skin on his chest, you whisper, “I can’t believe you were playing 4D chess this entire time.”

“What can I say? I’m a mastermind.”

[empireofthestates]

If you are one of the people who will be directly affected by Project 2025 - if you are transgender, a woman, lgbtqia+, an immigrant, or atheist, I strongly encourage you to formulate an escape/survival plan.

IF YOU PLAN TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY:

Join expat groups on Faceb00k. People will often post housing, job offers, or general advice in these groups that may be beneficial when moving. (Expat groups I'm in: Mexico: 1, 2, 3, 4 / Canada: 1, 2, 3 / Sweden: 1, 2 / Germany: 1, 2)

Apply for a U.S. Passport. As it currently stands, you can't travel to many places internationally without one. If you are trying to move before refugee status is available, this document will become necessary. Passports are still backed up right now, and can take months to arrive. If you are able, start applying now!

Brush up on any marketable skills. Look into the country you want to move to and see if you have any skills they are in need of! Lots of countries will often expedite your immigration status if you have skills they need.

Make sure you can take your pets with you. Lots of countries have breed restrictions (for instance, the U.K. has banned pitbulls and other bully breeds). Make sure that wherever you are going, you can take your pets. Look into travel options for dogs (airline, cruise, etc.) If you can't take your pets, make a plan to leave them with someone stateside who will take care of them. Do your best to minimize the risk of them ending up at a shelter.

Buy a house in your desired country. Many countries, such as Portugal, view buying property in their country as a verifiable means of immigration. Many countries also have lower housing prices than the U.S. so it may be more financially feasible than buying stateside.

Move closer to the border. If you plan to move somewhere that shares a land border with the U.S., consider moving closer to that border. My partner and I are currently looking at moving from South Carolina to Washington state so that if the time comes, we are that much closer to the border.

Figure out how you're going to get there. If you are driving, (Canada, Mexico), look into importing your car. Canada has specific regulations about what kinds of cars are allowed to be imported due to their strict environmental protection laws.

Learn the language. Duolingo and YouTube University are both free!

IF YOU CAN'T LEAVE THE COUNTRY, STILL FORMULATE A PLAN:

Create a community. Make friends with people of a similar mindset as you. Collaborate amongst each other to keep each other safe. Create groups in your local area. Meet at the library or a local park. Make connections and allies so when the time comes, you are not alone.

Find out what assets you can liquidate quickly for extra cash. If you have things like gold jewelry, keep those. Gold is often better than cash (especially if inflation keeps going up). However, gaming consoles, collectibles, and antiques may be easily sold/pawned if you need to get cash quickly. Make notes of what valuables you have.

Learn survival skills. Maybe not completely necessary, but rather safe than sorry. Learn how to build a shelter, start a fire, and forage. I did most of my survival training at a YMCA. YouTube and your local library are also great places to look!

Create spaces in your home where you can hide things. Make false bottoms in dresser drawers. Make a false wall in your closet or a hidden crawlspace access.

Stockpile the things you need. If you need certain meds to function, try to find alternative ways to get them. If you have the money to buy extra canned food, put them away in storage. If you smoke, stockpile cigarettes or other tobacco products. Those may also be helpful for trading later.

Protect yourselves. If you have no other choice, find a way to protect yourself if the time comes. Whether that is through allies or weapons, PROTECT YOURSELF. At the end of the day, your life is more important than your politics. Don't be a Batman when N@zis are on the loose.

MOST IMPORTANTLY:

Do not lose hope! More than anything, people have the "indomitable human spirit." When push comes to shove, humanity fights back. Generations before us have fought to protect themselves before, and we will do it again. Our communities will survive.

[iamthecomet]

comet i am so high and thinking only of dew's fingers can you help in any way you see fit

i will pay in hand content pls I beg

For you, Miasma? Anything. ♥ Dew showing Aurora just what those fingers can do--under the cut.

Dew’s fingers taste like salt, and metal. Aurora wasn’t sure what she was expecting—tobacco maybe, weed. But instead, the metallic tang of guitar strings and sweat burst on her tongue as Dew pets his calloused fingertips over it. Drags them along the edge of her fangs.

He pushes them deep, until she chokes on them. A small noise bubbling in the back of her throat as she gags and he doesn’t pull them back—not for a handful of seconds anyway. Knuckles pressed up against her plush lips. Lipstick and drool paint the base of his fingers as he slowly pulls them out. When he pushes back in, it’s in tandem with the other hand. The one shoved between her legs. Two fingers pressed deep into her cunt, dragging over some magical spot inside of her that makes her legs shake.

Human vessels, she decides, are wonderful.

This isn’t her first tryst topside, far from it, but it’s her first like this. Shoved into an Abbey broom closet. Dew’s over warm body pressed right up against her back as he worked the fastenings on her pants to shove them down to her thighs. Fingers searching. Finding her wet already. Dragging over her swollen clit and through her folds to plunge deep. The fingers in her mouth, he says, are to keep her quiet.  She doesn’t think that’s really true given the way noises spill unbidden from her lips when he pumps his fingers a little harder rocking her body up against the storage boxes he has her pressed against.

She has one hand wrapped around his forearm. Feeling the shift in his muscles as he fingers her. The other is tangled in his hair, silky blonde locks slipping through her fingers as she clings to him. Presses her hips back into his hand. Finds him hard against her hip. She can feel the heat of him through his uniform pants. He slides his cock against her hip in languid rolls. Holding her close, head tipped back against his shoulder, as he fucks his fingers in and out of her mouth. Index and pinky finger reaching down to bracket her jaw, his thumb pressed against her throat just hard enough that she feels it.  

She presses her tongue between his fingers and sucks, and Dew’s breath stutters. He grinds the other two deeper. Pressing in hard enough to make her knees wobbly. To hammer against that secret spot inside of her and make her keen around his fingers. The press of his body is the only thing holding her upright. Her hips pinned hard to the box in front of her.

“You like them,” he says against the side of her head. Voice harsh. Nose digging into her hair.

She nods, maybe overzealous. But it’s hard to care like this. Hard to care when the smell of heat and cinnamon is everywhere and Dew’s fingers are carving a space inside of her and it feels so good she can barely see.

It’s not like it’s a secret. Aurora loves hands. Has since the moment she stepped out of the pit. She’s always touching. Tracing veins and tendons. Lacing her fingers with someone else’s. Sighing softly at the drag of callouses over her knuckles.

Dew drags his nose up the side of her neck. The fingers between her legs slow. Urgency replaced with a lazy grind that has her rocking back against him, searching for more. Thighs shaking. She can hear how wet she is with each pump of his fingers.

“So fucking wet,” Dew hisses right in her ear. Voice rough with reverence. “Just for my fingers, huh?” Aurora nods again, pressing harder into his forearm.

“Aurora,” he breathes, “use your words.”

She tries to speak, sounds muffled against his fingers. He presses his fingers down on her tongue and she whines. Growling with frustration over the game as her hips roll against his hand.

“Come on,” he teases, “say it, tell me how much you love them.”  She can feel his grin against the side of her neck. Then the prick of his teeth as he nips at the soft skin under her ear. She whines again, feels the hot prick of tears behind her eyes as the pleasure is too much and not enough and she wants to tell him. She wants to let every filthy thought she’s had about his fingers, his hands, him, spill from her lips. But she can’t. He won’t let her. “Guess you don’t really want them—” Dew starts to pull back, slips his fingers almost all the way out, just his fingertips pressed against the inner walls of her cunt. She growls, whimpers. She shakes her head as hard as she can. Dragging the base of his fingers over her teeth as she does. She tries to say please. It comes out muffled, but the sentiment is there. And before she’s even done making the noise, he plunges his fingers back in, hard, as deep as they’ll go and her knees really do buckle. She sags against him, eyes rolling up as he sets the same brutal pace as before.

He pulls his fingers from her mouth. He drags them down to her throat, smearing spit and what’s left of her lipstick down her chin. He holds her there, gently. Fingers grazing over her pulse. His fangs catch on the shell of her ear. He grinds his dick a little harder into her hip. “Tell me,” he orders. “And maybe I’ll let you cum on them.”  

[im-just-worthless-19]

Sanji x Reader hc Nsfw 🔞 afab reader

He is all about your pleasure and will make sure you have at least two orgasms before he will even think about himself

Loves when you keep eye contact with him along with and praise you give him

His favorite spot to kiss is right between the nape of your neck and shoulder blade

A lot of people think he would do stuff in his kitchen but I don't think that he would be one to do this but I do think he would be one to pull you into the storage closet whenever he feels is convenient

He loves self care days with you and after a nice day of face mask and hair treatment he would love to loose himself in-between your thighs

Most of the time he will brush or at least wash out his mouth before even trying to kiss your beautiful lips but whenever he is especially needy he will kiss you and you can taste the small small samples of his cooking mixed with the tobacco

He loves holding both of your thighs while your ankles lay on his shoulder with every movement of his waist his fingers dig into the fat of your thighs

Whenever you ride him he tries so hard not to buck up into he wants nothing but to be good for you but he can only wait so long till he holds you in place and bucks into you untill tears fill your eyes

He will join you in showers after cleaning the kitchen sliding in behind you hands coming up to rub and pinch at you breast

After a long fight both of you will lay in bed and after so long of cuddling you will end up with two of his long fingers wrapped so tightly in you while his head is buried in your neck giving soft kisses and mumbled praises

[pampushky]

Creature (Both Haunted & Holy)

Vinsmoke Sanji/Reader - Chapter 18 - 6.1k

As the night brings unexpected guests to your ship, you find yourself in your worst nightmare, while Sanji realizes just how hard he’s fallen.

ao3 | series masterlist | masterlist | next part

The ruckus of the town throwing a celebration for your crew is audible from whatever tavern they’ve holed up in. You feel one of your ears twitch, when you hear another loud cry, followed by laughter. There’s no one on the pier now, yet you can smell something in the air. 

It’s not the faint scent of your pod, which hangs forever around the ship. It’s wonderful, the way they’ve all melted together to form something cohesive that almost smells unified. There are hints of rubber, tangerines, and tobacco, all mixing to form something so unique that it could only be described as the Straw Hats. 

Your sunglasses had been slipped to rest on top of your head, no longer needing the cover from the sunlight. It’s a calm night, besides the occasional rowdy shout from the town. Nothing on the ship has changed, and it still sways sleepily in the water. Part of you regrets not joining your crew, but the logical side argues that it was necessary. You didn’t like crowds, and you weren’t a people person. The fact you hadn’t fully panicked in Loguetown was a miracle, honestly. 

Quietly, you hum as you walk around the ship, not focusing on watching it so much as you are staving off your boredom until the crew comes back to sleep for the night. The storage room had been reorganized and the logs were up to date now, and more dry goods had been dropped off by a few townsfolk. 

Something had been… off, though. Their smiles were much too wide, and their greetings too excited when they realized you were a selkie. You had made a note, just out of caution, to keep the goods you had gotten all separated from the main storage until you had Sanji back here to make sure they were safe to eat. 

Sanji. You wondered what he was doing now. He had a fair amount of people hanging off of him, and you really couldn’t blame them, he was attractive, if not a bit flirtatious with most people. It wasn’t like you were committed to him, anyway, despite what Nami had pointed out to you. Or that he had a reason to commit to you, or showing interest in you.

The women and even some of the men who had been vying for his attention as he was leaving the pier certainly looked better than you did on a given day. Subconsciously, you did look down at yourself. Gray, speckled skin, dashed with pink scars. The inner skin of your thighs had lightened as you had grown, just like any other leopard seal selkie. But they certainly didn’t have the same amount of scars or bony shoulders and thin arms. But even then, with you gaining your lost weight back, and slowly having your muscle loss reversed, could you be considered beautiful?

Leopard seal selkenfolk were not meant to be beautiful. They were not ringed, harp, spotted, or ribbon selkenfolk, with delicate patterns that drew the gaze of admirers, and gentle singing voices that would put even the most fussy pup to sleep in seconds. Leopard seals were warriors and builders, the workers of the isles they inhabited, and fierce protectors of the pod. They were large, and awkward, with clashing pelt colors in seal and selken form, with eyes that were dark as night and reflected light like a predator would. 

You were not pretty. This you knew. You saw it in your teeth, made for ripping apart prey, and understood it when your claws would unsheath themselves when you hunted fish for your pod. There was no beauty in your patchy-furred seal form when you tried to bask in the sun on the deck. So why should you try at this point?

As you passed by a window, you were surprised by your reflection in it. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t seen it since your liberation, but you… just hadn’t studied it in detail. 

There were those dark eyes. No whites, only chunks of basalt with flood-water irises. Dark hair that was slowly growing back out to the length it had been before you cut it, wild as kelp and refusing to be tamed into a bun. Chapped lips and a scarred cheek, with baby fat that would never leave. Dark gray speckles splattered themselves like coal dust down your nose and around your eyes and forehead. Your chin was the same pale gray as your inner thighs, and that color trickled down your neck and chest. 

The only thing that you did like about yourself was the small white freckles that danced along your skin, cutting through the dark gray. That was not a leopard seal. That was your mother, Sion, the only trait of her ringed seal lineage you had of her. 

You were no beauty, but at least you had your mother's freckles. You could live with that. 

A creak of someone walking on wood drew your attention, snapping you from your mildly self-deprecating observation. Whoever was trying to be sneaky, they were failing, and probably depending on how dark it was to mask their failure. Unfortunately for them, you could see as clearly in the dark as though it were day, and the small group that was making their way to the Going Merry’s gangplank was not aware that they were already spotted. 

You could be nice here, and just call the ocean to knock the gangplank down, sending all five people into the water. But you wanted to know more. So you waited, hiding in the shadows as they came aboard, and searched the deck. 

“Where is she?” One man hissed, swinging his head wildly as if that would help him see any better in the dark. They were talking about you, for some reason. It didn’t help that the sounds of merriment had died down as well, making a chill run down your spine, a warble wanting to make its way past your lips.

“I don’t know! She’s probably asleep!” A second man snapped. 

A grumbled agreement fell over the group, and you carefully moved around them, watching and listening. One woman started poking at the door to the galley, trying her best to look in through the window. Clearly, these were not master thieves. 

“I can’t see her in here!” She hissed to the group and you watched as another woman, and the first man who had spoken carefully went up the stairs to look in the door, before just pushing it open. 

“She’s not in there,” The man spoke again, sighing. “Search for any doors, we still don’t want to use any light.”

“That makes this even harder!” The final person spoke, their eyes wide and frustrated. “It’s one selkie and there’s five of us, I think we can take her!”

“Do you, now?” 

Five pairs of eyes whipped towards you as you spoke and struck Tide against the deck, the trident letting out a long, low ring, and shockingly, glowing as it did so. You were no beauty, yes, but in that moment, you were utterly terrifying as you seemed to disappear into a deep, heavy fog as you charged at the closest, that same person who had so confidently said that five of them could take you. 

As if on instinct, that small part of your brain that had been picking, nay, nagging at you silently ever since your crewmates had left. Touch them with your claws, it whispered, and you agreed, free hand twitching as you brought Tide down in an arc. So you did, roaring as your claws unsheathed themselves, and your brain fogged, the thrill of the hunt making your adrenaline soar.

You thought of how you had caused frost to climb the walls back in Arlong Park and had intermittently since caused the water to change into ice and fog. It was natural, even as your claws only brushed against the person’s cheek. Their scream of pain was evidence enough for you if the sudden drop in temperature hadn’t made it clear. Before they could have a chance to recover, you brought Tide forward, slamming the flat of the points into their head, knocking them out cold.

Well done. 

“What the fuck was that?!”

“Holy shit!”

The next man charged, and you sidestepped, narrowly missing his strike. The nape of his neck– sink your claws in. 

“Frostbitten Claw! ”

There was an odd satisfaction when his entire body turned to ice, shattering when it hit the ground. The fog that had hidden you sunk low to the deck, but the temperature had dropped. You could feel it, chilling your skin, causing your breath to come out in clouds as the three remaining combatants stood in a triangle around you, unsure of who would go next. The first man to speak charged, along with a nearly identical woman, both wielding curved blades. 

“You’ll pay for that!”

Their attacks were merciless, keeping you on the defensive, as you countered against them, bits of ice and water exploding from Tide with every strike against the metal. Or was it made of ice itself? Either way, it wasn’t taking any damage, and it never warmed under your touch.

Another splash, and it gave you an idea. I could use this against them if I just get the chance to strike back, you glanced down, briefly, eyes widening. Right before the woman was going to attempt to strike upwards, the man would stumble a bit. It was consistent, too, happening with each strike. If you could get him to trip– perhaps on a chunk of his frozen ally, however grim that sounded– this fight could be over. 

“Getting tired? I’ll make sure you’ll pay for what you did to my friends! ” The woman sneered, pulling back her lips, as you continued to let yourself get backed up, waiting for your chance. She flipped the blade in her hand, making it go up, and right when she was about to hit Tide’s shaft, her partner stumbled, and fell into the arc of her attack, catching himself on her blade as she screamed, cutting into his belly. 

Quickly, you twirled your trident and brought the butt of the weapon into the woman’s face, grimacing when you heard the crunch of it making contact with her nose, before knocking her unconscious by bringing the shaft to hit the back of her head. By now, the temperature had dropped significantly around you, though you didn’t notice. 

A snowflake fell in front of the last woman, and she screamed, making for the gangplank. And oh, how your mind howled. To give chase, to remind her that it had been her group to come into your territory. Even as you charged after her, something felt wrong. Your humanity screamed for you to stop, while your instincts bayed for blood. 

What manages to yank you from your instinctual haze is a sharp pain in the back of your neck, the woman shaking in your ferocious grip, growling and baring your teeth. You don’t know what you were going to do originally, but decide it probably would be better to just toss her in the water, already frustrated by the fog that clouded your thoughts. It felt as though you were coming up from a deep dive, gasping for air as you looked around the deck. There was the shattered man and the half-frozen person. The couple who had been fighting you were slumped unconscious near the entrance to the anchor deck. It was a bloodbath, and your stomach churned. Had it really been you, who had done all that? Who had taken another person’s life?

The only thing you could hear was yourself getting sick over the side of the railing, vomiting into the ocean as you realized what you had done, calling for the water to wash away your terrible, terrible deeds until the deck was cleared.

There was still that stabbing pain in your neck, and as you brought your hand up to touch it, your fingers made contact with a hard plastic, pulling out a bright green dart. You stared down at it in horror and felt your breath hitch. That had been… what, a few minutes ago? How much time did you have left, if any at all? What had you been hit with? A low growl near your ear makes you freeze, turning to look behind you, as the last remnants of your battle are swept from the deck. 

Unwillingly, you let out a low warble, feeling terror seize your heart as a familiar shadow overtook your vision, with a sharp nose and furious eyes that you would know anywhere approaching. Only, it isn’t a shadow. It’s him, physical and real, with purple-gray skin, and greasy hair, towering over you.

Sanji cannot help but miss you, even as there is a woman practically throwing herself across him. He honestly wonders if he’s broken, because in another life, this would have been a dream, to be loved on and have all sorts of beautiful people hanging off of his very breath. But you aren’t here, and it makes him ache, fiending for you like an addict. Your gentle smile, and the delicate colors of your pretty skin, he misses you so desperately it scares him. Every part of you, he sees in someone here at the party. In the freckles of a beautifully tanned man who slides up next to him, purring praises. In the low, rumbling rasp of an older woman who plays with his hair. 

They’re not you. They don’t have your soft curves or bony joints. And though others would think those features unappealing, they’re real, and they’re human. It’s a sign you are still healing, and still growing. And that Sanji, by some miracle, is a part of that process. You trusted him to help you through that, to help your stomach readjust to a healthy diet, and to help fix the beating your body had taken in the two years of your captivity. It’s only been around three and a half months, he knows this, but he’s seen the progress you’ve already made. Sinewy muscles on your biceps and your thighs growing less plush and more cabled, along with your form filling back out, the softness of your cheeks returning to you, rather than the hollowed-out pout he had met you with. 

You were, in Sanji’s humble opinion, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He tells this to Zoro, who looks incredibly done with his shit at this point, annoyed with how he’s managed to wax poetic for long periods about how wonderful you are, sighing your name, and looking longingly at the door. 

“It’s just that…. Ott’s so wonderful,” Sanji puts his chin in his hand, his cigarette pinched between his fingers. “How could anyone ever think to do such a thing to a woman, much less a teenager… how could anyone have done that to her and not wanted to rip their eyes out of their head?”

“Because people are bad sometimes, twirly-brows.”

“I know that, mosshead! It’s just….”

Sanji thinks of how you had taken care of his cut on his hand, and the sweet words you had spoken to him. Your genuine concern for the entire crew as you watched them so carefully, healing tiny wounds and taking the night’s watch the most often.

“Will you please stop sighing dramatically? I’m going to gag if you get any more lovesick,” Zoro groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palm. “Grow a pair and… do the seal dating thing. I don’t fucking know, man!”

“You think I should?” Sanji is tipsy, looking at Zoro with his mouth in an ‘o’ and wide-open eyes. 

“If it gets you to shut up, then yeah,” Zoro leans back, and the chef is still looking at him. “You’d better treat her right. Don’t cheat on her, or nothin'— I’ll cut you open if you do.”

“I want to show her nothing but love,” Sanji sighs dramatically, “D’you know she doesn’t think she’s pretty?”

“How do you know that?”

“I can feel it. Like, this deep sadness,” Sanji furrows his brow, and puts his hand over his heart, trying to will himself to feel it again, just like he had the first time. “I— I dunno, it happened after last night.”

“What happened last night?” Zoro cocked an eyebrow, setting his drink down. “What’d the seal do?”

“There was this spark—” Sanji begins, only to be interrupted by a woman throwing herself across his lap, a manicured hand sweeping down his chest as she dragged him to dance. 

Zoro is even more puzzled than before, watching as Sanji tries to think of a polite way to turn down the girl, and even when it grows later, and the swordsman pretends to sleep, he’s still confused by just what Sanji meant by feeling how you had felt. Just as Zoro thinks he is about to fall asleep, he hears a distant roar. One that sounds both terrified and fearsome at the same time, and hears the townspeople start to murmur. The mayor turns to face the door, swears loudly, and has an entire change in character, harshly whispering orders to people and shoving them out the door, only sparing a loathing glare for the Straw Hats. 

There’s another roar, and this is when Zoro takes this as a sign to leave, quietly opening a window and swinging out of it, climbing the wall to get onto the roof as quickly as possible, staring down at the crowd of hundreds before they even know he’s there. 

Back on the ship, you are in a panic. 

Arlong towers over you as you back away from him. One of his giant fists slams into the deck where you had just been, destroying it and leaving a giant hole. You screech, sprinting down the deck and jumping up onto the railing to leap to the pier. The fishman follows you, with a roar of your name. The moment your feet made contact with the wooden planks of the pier, you felt the temperature lower, the ground frozen underneath you covered in ice. That shouldn’t have been possible, especially with your lack of training, but that wasn’t exactly at the forefront of your main concerns. 

Eyes blown wide, teeth bared, claws out. Tide humming dangerously in your hand, the perfect image of a leopard seal warrior, primed to attack. But here you were, standing in the center of a perfect circle, the air growing ever colder around you as Arlong stood on the deck of your ship, glaring down at you. 

So you fled. Arlong alone couldn’t move the entire ship, even if he was using fishman karate. You let out another cry, trying your best to awaken your pod mates to what was happening, but all that came out was a high, reedy warble. Please, pod, help, unsafe! Terror clouded your mind as you ran ever faster.

Arlong hurled a plank of wood into your head, roaring in fury as he missed you completely. All you wanted was to curl up in your nest, deep under a blanket, with your pod around you. You let out another cry, pleading with whatever gods were out there to take some mercy on you. 

Sea Mother, please! Your chest started to ache. How long have you been running at this point? It was getting cold, too. That certainly wouldn’t help if you were just huffing and puffing the entire time, choking on cold air as you struggled to get away. But for every corner you turned, every time you thought you had gotten away, he was always there. And now you were caught somewhere between three buildings. 

“My little selkie has left me such a wonderful trail,” Arlong purred, and you felt your stomach drop. How could you have let yourself get cornered? “Did you miss me, sweet thing?”

“Please, leave me alone,” You take another step back, looking down at the ground, trembling. And there it was. The damned trail of frost and ice, coating the cobbles of the town. Your gift, your undoing. “Please don’t touch me, please just go away–”

“I’ll be doing much, much worse,” Arlong took another step forward, and you wailed, your hands over your ears, and claws sinking into your scalp as you did so, a rush of arctic air exploding forth from you. 

Where there had once been a visage of your captor standing over you, ready to pounce, was now a wall of ice, jagged and enormous. And you were tired, so, so tired. You could only hope that your podmates would find you, as you let yourself slump, letting out a sleepy warble for Sanji as your eyes fell shut.

Sanji wakes up with a start aware of two things. The first, is that you need his help, right now, and the second, is that something is deeply, deeply wrong. Zoro is gone, as well as Nami and Luffy, and Usopp is dead asleep on a couch near him. 

Cautiously, he shakes the sniper, who lets out a groan, slapping at his hand. 

“Fuck off, Luffy… s’to early….” Usopp turns and shoves his face into the couch cushions, groaning when Sanji shakes him again, finally cracking open one of his eyes, his sleepy expression turning confused when he realizes it’s not Luffy shaking him awake, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but you need to get back to the ship and get it ready,” Sanji looks at the door when he hears a shout and several thuds. “I’m gonna find the rest of the crew.”

Usopp lets out a nervous sigh, and nods, making his way to a window to get out of the building. Sanji opts for the door, cracking it open to look outside, eyes widening as he looks at the carnage before him. Hundreds of people are tossed about like rag dolls, many bleeding out, dead, or groaning in pain, while down the street, he can see the unmistakable shape of his captain and swordsman being held by Nami, all looking up at the gigantic glacier that had definitely not been there when they had been lead into town. 

It’s monstrous, engulfing half the town, with a deep fog rolling off it from the drastic temperature difference. A trail of ice and frost leads the way up to it, and somewhere deep in Sanji’s head, something aches and whines. You were there. Somehow, you were there, and you had gotten involved in whatever mess this was. Sanji doesn’t know how he knows this, but he’s certain of it. He can still feel the ache, though it’s not painful. It’s like a phantom pain, nagging at the back of his mind, pulling at his heart, searching for some missing half he’s only just noticed is gone.

And then it hits him, your scent washing over him as he sprints forward towards the fog. Rotten leaves and a storm-churned sea, with a hint of blood that makes his skin prickle. He doesn’t know where you are, but he knows that he has to help you, and needs to be able to tell you how he feels. He doesn’t care that Nami shouts at him to stop, or that Ms. Wednesday is standing in shock behind his crewmates.

There’s a tug at his mind again, and through flickers of panic, he sees you, lying on the ground, sleeping. Then there’s the panic. The way your blood felt like syrup in your veins. And him. Arlong, chasing you, always just a half step ahead or behind you to never let you have a movement to think. 

“I’ll kill him,” Sanji stops for a moment, letting himself be still, heart pounding in his chest, as he calls your name, cupping his hands around his mouth as he does so. The little itch at the back of his mind flickers, and it’s like he knows exactly where you are as he takes careful steps, guided by that small tug. The fog gets deeper, and he can feel the drop in temperature. The ice path turns to snow, crunching under his shoes. 

The snow you lay in is soft, not too cold for you. It reminds you so much of the time you had spent outside as a child, watching as human sailors on the docks grumbled about the chill in the air, while selken pups were running around barefoot, unbothered by the weather. You can almost see Sion and Feann chasing your younger twin brothers, while an old friend, some red-haired man, watches with a cackle, clearly amused. 

There’s a gentle hand on your head, and you can feel the pins and needles sensation that was being healed. You only want to sleep, but the prickle against your skin gets more insistent, and the touch slightly harsher. It doesn’t hurt you, nothing even close to pain, but it instills an urgency to rise and open your eyes. 

oh my small one what has happened to you all these years ?

It’s familiar, just fuzzy enough in the back of your mind, and makes you think of the grandmother you had only heard of in stories. Sweet, loving Coth, who had left her home island of Neath to be with your grandfather. Feann’s mother, who you looked so much like, and who you had been held by only once as a newborn. But it’s not mortal, it lacks the tone and drawl that you would expect. But it’s sweet and loving.

The sweet voice hums, and you feel as though the touch travels down your face, tracing your chin. It’s warm, and it makes you whine and lean into the touch. 

your other soul searches for you pup . you must answer him my small one . 

As if on cue, you hear it, or rather, feel it first, a gentle pull that makes your eyes flutter open. The world is blurry for the first few seconds, and the touch fades. 

i will be back soon my small one . never fear that i am away from you for long . i have always been there to guide you . 

Around you is a cloud of fog, hanging low and almost hiding you completely as you sit up with a groan, your entire body aching. Everything smells of your distress, tinged with freezer burn. You shudder, feeling a stabbing pain in your ribs, as if there was a knife lodged between them. 

Somewhere to your left Sanji calls your name, loud and desperate. You groan as you try to get up, looking over to try and find him. You feel the pull again, letting out a warble to hopefully help him. Your vision blurs again as you manage to push yourself up onto one of your knees, falling onto your stomach as you do so. 

Sanji hears the crunch of snow as you fall forward, and watches as the fog puffs upwards slightly as you disturb it. He’s by your side in a second, and you let out a low whine, flinching when his hand brushes against your shoulder. 

“Are you hurt?” 

“I don’t know,” your ribcage throbs and you tuck your pelt around yourself tighter, gasping as you try to sit up again. “I– Sanji, Arlong was here, he was hunting me!”

The cook stiffens, and helps you stand, letting you lean heavily on him as you wince in pain, closing your eyes tightly as you try to take a step forward. Sanij sees how your legs wobble, and picks you up, one arm looped under your torso and the other under your legs. You let out a small squeak in shock, looking up at him. For a second, there’s a bit of fear in your eyes, before one of your hands grips his suit jacket tightly, bracing yourself against him.

“Sorry, I should have asked before I did that,” He looks around carefully, surveying the area as he starts to jog, keeping you safe in his arms, though he looks at where you hold one of your hands over your stomach. “What do you mean, by that, was it like last night?” 

“N–No, he was actually here, I could smell him, he was able to touch me,” You shudder, and unconsciously tuck yourself closer to his chest, staring at your hands, “I swear, he was right there! ”

“I believe you, I believe you, you don’t have to prove anything,” Sanji soothes, and you let out another warble, closing your eyes again. The world was getting blurry again, and it hurt to breathe.  “I should have stayed on the ship with you, I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay,” You felt exhausted, letting yourself go limp, ‘Y’here now, Ji.”

“Hey, hey, keep those pretty eyes open for me,” Sanji looks down at you and then looks back up. He can see the rest of the crew now, getting lectured by Nami. 

“Y’think my eyes are pretty?” You blink, voice slurred.

“They’re gorgeous,” He manages to laugh a bit, looking down at you with a smile despite the gravity of the situation. The crew looks up at him, a bit confused especially considering that you’re in his arms. “C’mon, we’re almost there, we’ll get back to the ship–”

“Oh gods,” You start to shake again as the crew realizes you’re the one in Sanji’s arms.

“Sanji, what’s going on?” Nami takes a step forward, looking at you with shock, before quickly pulling your pelt aside after she sees a bit of red on your shirt. “You’re– you’re bleeding, oh my gods–”

“Oh.” You look down and find that the pain in your ribs is from a shard of the glacier embedded in your torso, some of your blood frozen to it. Sanji lets out a distressed noise, unable to look away from it. “That… hah, that explains a bit.”

“I’m getting her back to the ship, now,” Sanji holds you a bit tighter, and looks at Ms. Wednesday, who looks utterly devastated by this sudden turn of events. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he does know one thing. Something happened, and she played a part in it, and as such, is one of the reasons you’re injured. “We need to leave, there’s something seriously wrong here.”

“I can explain it all,” The woman looks shaken, looking at the glacier, and then back at you. “I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t know this would happen … I’m so sorry.”

You scent the air, thick with confusion and anger, and Sanji holds you just a bit closer, frowning at the woman deeply as he makes his way to the Going Merry without so much as looking back, sprinting as quickly as he can without jostling you. 

“How'd you even get out there?”

“Some people ambushed me,” You lean against his chest, starting to feel tired again. “I think I killed people, Sanji. I think I killed someone.”

There’s a heavy silence as Sanji lets out a heavy breath, a bit shaken by your statement. 

“You were defending yourself,” His hands squeeze tight enough to keep you awake and you whine, flinching. “Sorry– did that hurt?”

“Everything hurts.”

“Just keep your eyes open, we’re almost home.”

“Home?” You blink sluggishly, confused. “I don’t have a home.”

“You do now,” Sanji slows as he comes to a stop near the gangplank. Usopp is rushing around the deck, as quickly as possible to get the ship ready to go. “Remember? You’re my pod, you have a wonderful pod now.” 

You let out a low hum, fighting to keep your eyes open, one of your hands falling to your wound. “I need water, I have to heal this…”

“I can do that,” Sanji jerks his head to Usopp, sharply whistling to get his attention as he rests you on a crate gently. “Watch Ott, she’s hurt–”

“I’ll be fine,” You almost fall off the crate, saved by Usopp, who’s shaking as he holds you up, swallowing thickly when he sees your wound. 

“Stay,” Sanji looks at you for a second, holding his hands up at you. “Don’t move… do not… move, Ott, I’m serious.”

“I’m fine,” You look at him with a challenging look, but stay where you sit. 

Sanji crosses the deck quickly, looking down only when he steps on a bright green dart, eyes widening as the pieces of the story all shift into place. But he doesn’t have the time to do much besides remind himself to pick it up and save it in a little baggie after you’ve been treated. He grabs a pitcher, fills it up to its brim, and rushes back out to you, relieved to find you still sitting on the crate, though you don’t look happy about it.

He sets it next to you, and as you move to sit up a bit more, he helps you, a hand on your shoulder to help you. When your handshakes, he hesitantly places his over it, and you trill weakly, leaning into him as you start to focus on the water, letting it swirl from the pitcher, and then splash across your torso, weaving its way over your skin, knitting it back together by moving the energy back and forth, back and forth. 

Some part of Sanji’s mind twitches, and it’s as though he can feel your exhaustion, silently trying to will some of his own energy to go to you. Your gaze flutters up to him, and he weaves his fingers through your own, helping to guide your hand through the motions, keeping the water moving. You wince, especially when the chunk of glacier melts away, and the hole left starts to scab over. That’s when you collapse, utterly spent, leaning heavily against the cook. He’s left feeling empty again, as though a part of his heart is missing, but you’re back on the ship, and he has you, safe and sound in his lap. 

An explosion rocks the island, so much so that the Going Merry shakes in the water. You let out a groan, and Usopp swears under his breath, going back to getting the ship ready. 

“Go help him,” You gently push on Sanji’s chest, “I’ll be right here.”

“Y’sure?” Sanji studies your face, and he doesn’t like how your eyes droop. 

“Mhm,” You delicately push yourself off his lap and prop yourself up on the crate. “I’ll be here, promise. Won’t move at all.” 

The two of them manage to get the boat nearly ready when Zoro, Nami, Luffy, and Ms. Wednesday approach the boat, the bluenette hugging herself tightly. Sanji is gathering up the pieces of the dart when the sharp smell of the drug it had contained hits him, making him recoil and drop it again, looking over at you, and at his crew as they walk up the gangplank. He doesn’t breathe in as he bags it up, holding it delicately. Some of the liquid, a bright yellow, pools in the bottom of the baggie. 

The ship pushes off, slower than usual without your aid, and Sanji makes sure to sit behind you, never taking his eyes off of Ms. Wednesday as the rest of the crew starts to look at her, one by one. Zoro takes his place beside you, only briefly making eye contact with Sanji before looking back at the woman in the center of the deck. 

You lean forward, interested, despite the pain in your torso, and then the scent hits you. Deep, deep shame, and a refusal to meet your eyes as you stand very slowly, making your way to her, and looking at the dart in her hands, realizing the part she played in your injury. 

“What did you do?” You whisper, and Zoro carefully guides you back to the crate, where Sanji has to hold onto your arm, “No– What did you do? You– what did you do to me?! ”

Luffy is the one who gets the boat to quiet down. He quietly explains, uncharacteristically serious as he does so, and you feel your world crumble slightly. 

“We’re helping her,” Luffy looks at you, and you feel your stomach sink, anxiety thrumming in your veins, “That doesn’t make you getting drugged okay, or the fact that they planned on killing all of us okay either. She’s going to make it up to us,” He looks at Vivi, who’s actively staring at you in horror, “But we can’t let a country die, Ott. We can’t just sit by and let that happen.”

Luffy doesn’t go after you when you make your way down to the girl's dorm, shrugging off any help offered by Nami or Usopp. Sanji goes to follow after you, only to have Zoro grab his shoulder, shaking his head at the cook who lets out a loud shout of ‘putain’ and storms into the galley. The deck is left in silence, with Vivi starting to cry as the crew disburses to run the ship, Karoo cuddling up beside her as the sun rises in the distance.

[laracrofted]

(since I’m feeling greedy) how about “show me how much you missed me” for Rhett 😍

i saw the new lewis content and exactly one (1) rhett picture yesterday, and suddenly, i was inspired to write some filth. enjoy! 🤠

warnings: minors dni, mentions of alcohol, language, explicit sexual content (basically rhett gets blown in the storage room at the handsome gambler... so semi-public oral sex), not proofread. rhett x fem!reader (bartender).

You are working a double at the Handsome Gambler again, an excruciating eleven hours, filled with spilled drinks and scattered peanut shells and rambling drunks who've got nothing better to do than get in a fight in your goddamn bar.

Luckily, Carl is working security tonight and can throw them out at the drop of a hat. You just have to give him the look, and all 200-something pounds of muscle are strolling over and grabbing some drunk out-of-towner by the collar of his brand new Carhartt.

Everything gets a whole lot better when Rhett strolls in around midnight, looking rugged and handsome as hell in an old worn (read: not fresh off the rack like California License Plate's) pair of Levi's and a Stetson.

He's been gone all of yesterday and today, away at an out-of-town rodeo just across the state line in Gardiner.

You wanted to go so damn bad and lose your voice cheering him on from the stands, but the Handsome Gambler needed two bartenders to operate on a weekend night. No one wanted to cover your shift.

You were disappointed, of course, but couldn't blame them. Who wants to work a double on a Saturday?

He braces his elbows on the bar and leans in, enough for you to smell mint and tobacco on his breath, and looks at you with those ocean blue eyes, half-lidded from exhaustion and something else entirely.

"Hi darlin'," Rhett murmurs, rough and pleasant, all smoke and leather. "Can I get a whiskey and a beer?"

An idea develops in your brain – your sleep deprived and cowboy deprived brain, who doesn't care much about your job now that Rhett's here. You cast a sidelong glance down to the end of the bar to make sure Wendy has it covered. She seems fine.

"Sure, but I keep the good stuff in the back, cowboy." His eyes flare at the nickname, black pupils blowing out the blue, flickering down to watch your mouth move around the word. "Wanna come help me get it?"

His lips twitch.

Less than a minute later finds you on your knees in the back room with Rhett's cock in your mouth.

You'd pushed him back against the locked door, hard enough to rattle the good liquor bottles that're kept on the metal shelving unit nearest the door, reaching for his belt buckle and peppering kisses on any inch of available skin within reach.

His strong neck. His collarbone, visible through the smallest gap in the plaid shirt. His jaw, covered in afternoon stubble. His neck.

You'd breathed, "Missed you, cowboy," between kisses, to which Rhett had rasped, "Oh yeah, darlin'? Why don'tcha show much how much you missed me?"

You were on your knees in a heartbeat. You might've actually bruised them.

His fingers are strong and insistent in your hair, guiding you on him, encouraging you to move faster. Take him deeper. He brushes the back of your throat, salty and warm.

You swallow instinctively. A strangled whimper punches out of Rhett's chest.

He lets out a long string of curses. "Shit, darlin'. Love your damn mouth. You're so good to me."

You pull back, running your tongue along the sensitive underside of his cock, licking and sucking at the tip of him, growing wetter with every harsh breath that shudders from him.

You're soaked already, just from the sounds of him, the weight of him in your mouth.

You look up at him, lashes sticking together from the moisture welling in your eyes, and damn, Rhett really is beautiful, eyes closed in desperate pleasure. He is still wearing the damn Stetson, which somehow gets you even hotter.

Idle fingers sneak under the hem of your denim skirt, and Rhett catches the movement.

"God, are you – Touch yourself for me," Rhett instructs, breathing hard, "but don't come. I want you to come on my cock later. Don't come, darlin'."

You desperately moan, vibrating around his cock, and with a half-gasped warning, Rhett comes down your throat. You wipe at your mouth with a crumpled napkin in your pocket, rise to your feet again as Rhett recovers.

He is red in the face, flushed and breathing like a marathon runner. He catches a glimpse of your damp fingers, slick from your own wetness.

Rhett lifts your hand to his mouth and sucks the wetness from your fingers, groaning.

"When do you get off, darlin'?"

"2:30 AM."

"Can you make it until then?" Rhett smirks, knowing, reaching under your skirt and running his index finger along the damp seam of your panties. "Christ, girl."

You think Rhett might be half hard already, straining against his now buttoned jeans.

You smirk back, despite the uncomfortable stickiness between your thighs that'll distract you for the rest of the damn shift. "A better question might be, Can you make it until then?"

His gaze is dark and wanting, but Rhett grins. "Meet me at the motel. I'll get us a room."

[pettyrevenge-base]

My brother ransacked my room. I cost him a job, prevented him from sleeping, and jacked up his phone bill.

New account for anonymity sake. Let's set the scene. It's 2010, I had just turned 18 and spent a long summer week away from home enjoying my new freedom to come and go from my parent's house as I pleased. During the week I crashed at friends' houses, went camping with other friends, video games, and all the cigarettes and tobacco products and snacks me and my friends could afford.

My meth addicted brother (27), I'll be referring to him as Mack, who thought he was going to make it big in the music scene because of of all the different drugs he was willing to do. He thought being on acid made him play as well as Jimi Hendrix because Hendrix did acid. This is relevant because in one of his many drug induced rampages, Mack was convinced his USB microphone was in my room. So Mack knocks on the door while I'm away, convinces my dad that he was recording in my room and left it in there. It was never in there. He was never there. My dad was so wrapped around Mack's manipulative finger that he never questioned anything he did. I kept careful inventory of my room because my parents and siblings would steal from me all the time and try to use my bedroom as a storage room for all sorts of things. Thinking back, his excuse was likely just to steal from me like the rest of my family did.

Mack goes into my room, tosses the place like out of movie scene during one of his notorious benders. He flips the mattress. Empties out every dresser drawer onto the floor. Nothing was left the way I had left it. After all was said and done I had to spend 3 days cleaning and reorganizing my room because of how badly this tweaker destroyed everything of mine. Things were broken, clothes everywhere, bins and boxes dumped on the floor. It was like a tornado had rampaged through a trailer park in Iowa. My dad had heard all of this going on and did nothing.

I showed my dad the mess. Dad just shrugs at me and says "He's in his 20s, what do you expect me to do?" "How about fucking stop his strung out ass from tossing the place? How about at least calling him to have him clean up his mess?" I replied. He practically ignored me and before walking off says "He was looking for his microphone and you need to just deal with it." Going to my mom was no different. Mom was so terrorized by him that she wanted no part of anything involving him because she felt unsafe. I can't blame her. He became aggressive when challenged on anything he did wrong.

Realizing nothing was going to be done by my parents and this was no matter to call the police over since Dad let him in the house, I did exactly what my dad said and dealt with it. I tried to be 'diplomatic' at first and asked him to come clean up my room. He laughs, makes fun of me, then says "I needed my microphone." I asked if he found it, I know he didn't because I knew where it was. Over in my dad's garage. He never answered. I scooped up the microphone to hide it even better. Stuffed into the rafters of an old shed on the outskirts of the property, inside of a large PVC pipe stacked up with other pipes. It's where he went to smoke his meth sometimes so I knew he wouldn't be looking for it there due to the paranoia of being caught by any of us. I gave Mack one final warning text to 'Clean it up or else'. He again made fun of me, "Crybaby bitch! How difficult is it to clean your own room? You're just a lazy piece of shit!" The last one really torqued me because he was a thief and did everything he could to get out of work.

Later that night I decided to do my best Tom Petty impression.

I leave my parents' house to sit around a campfire at a friend's house. I waited until I left because then Mack couldn't find me, neither could my dad. I knew my dad was going to simp for him and defend him yet again. I waited until Mack would've been nice and comfortable at home. I lit my first cigarette of the night and promised myself that nothing would stop my ensuing plan until I smoked the whole pack. I had recently learned how to SMS bomb. At the time, you could add the same contact into your SMS app multiple times for a group chat. I believe it was up to 30 on the phone I had. For every 1 SMS/MMS I sent him, he received 30 in total. I spent hours sending messages to Mack. If I had a cigarette in my mouth, I was text bombing him. I spent from 9pm until 4 am sending Mack thousands upon of thousands of text and picture messages. I have now dropped a Hiroshima sized text bomb on the fancy Blackberry he was so proud of buying a week or two before this.

For anyone wondering, it was simply a copy and pasted text that said "This stops when my room is clean" and a picture of the mess he had made. I alternated back and fourth. This took very little effort and left him inundated with notifications every 1-3 seconds. This effectively DDoSed his phone into oblivion. It was locked up tighter than New York subway car. He could not call, text, or even open anything on his phone other than my text messages.

Dad starts frantically calling me around 1am. I ignored it. Then my mom calls me and leaves a voicemail for me to call him. Worried it's an emergency, I call dad back. Dad picks up the phone, screaming at me "His phone is locked up and he can't use it! You need to stop this RIGHT FUCKING NOW!" I replied "He needs to go and clean up the mess he made of my room RIGHT FUCKING NOW or just deal with it like I have to." The argument continues for a while longer, the entire time he's defending Mack tooth and nail. Eventually I broke it to my dad that there was nothing I could do to stop the flow of messages and notifications. He hung up and never brought it up again.

After the smoke had cleared (pun intended) I found out Mack had his Blackberry locked up for 10 days. He wasn't able to respond to a job offer and wasn't smart enough to leave an alternate contact means. The job went to someone else by the time Mack was able to return their call. He was still going to be stuck at the job he loathed for a while longer. His phone plan had a monthly SMS/MMS and data limit that I absolutely destroyed. The month's bill was over $300, I wanna say closer to $400. His live in girlfriend was also pissed because they had to leave the phone on and plugged into a charger to let it process the messages from my mass messaging campaign the night before. The notifications made the phone unusable and they were stuck listening to the notification sounds for those 10 days. They tried stuffing it inside of a blanket but the phone would get too hot and they were worried it would start on fire. On the counter, plugged in to an outlet it sat. Keeping them awake and annoyed constantly.

Another 2 months roll past, I finally decided he could have his microphone back... Kind of. I took it out of hiding and stuffed it in his keyboard box that was also stored at my parent's house. He found it there not too long after and never even apologized for what he did, not that I ever expected him to. He even bragged about finally finding it. He never went into my room again without my permission out of fear of his phone being locked up again.

TLDR; Bro ransacked my room looking for his microphone that wasn't there. I sent him literally thousands of text messages that made his phone unusable. I cost him a job, 10ish days of sleep lost to constant notifications, hundreds of dollars on his phone bill, and a terrible home life with his GF because of all of that. I also hid his precious microphone for an additional 2 months before giving it back.

Source: reddit.com/r/pettyrevenge

[tinkabelle24]

To Build a Home

Chapter 1: This is Us Colliding

TW! SUICIDE ATTEMPT, familial abuse, substance abuse (alcohol), blood.

Masterlist

---

Hauling her suitcase behind her, Val gingerly shuffled past the threshold of her new home. The brunette closed and locked the door behind her, before setting her suitcase aside and glancing about the room.

The apartment was tiny. Every room shared the same long and narrow space; save for the bathroom, obviously.

She sniffed, screwing up her nose in disgust. What's that smell? She hurried to open the only window her apartment possessed. Glancing upward, she noticed that most of the 'white' wall paint was stained an awful yellow colour – tobacco smoke.

One of the former tenants must have smoked inside. Disgusting! She made a mental note of cleaning that later.

With somewhat fresher air now billowing in from the bustling street, Val proceeded through the apartment to take in the rest of the space.

She could probably fit a two-seater couch near the end of where her bed would be and a small television unit against the wall opposite it, with just enough room to squeeze through to access the fire escape.

She turned into the cramped kitchen. A small island counter separated the living area and the kitchen, long enough to seat one – maybe two – people. She had a two-burner stovetop, one-tray oven, minimal storage space and just enough room to fit the skinniest refrigerator ever.

It’s so small...

No, stop it.

She had to think of the good that was coming out of all this. She finally had her safe space, away from her. At 22-years-old, she was finally an independent woman.

Before she could let herself feel embarrassed by this, she forced herself to smile.

Mom... she groaned as the negative thoughts seized her mind once again. Why did it have to be this way...

No. Stop it! Shut up!

The characteristic hum of an incoming text message snapped Val out of her thoughts. She immediately grew pale, expecting the worst.

Please, not you again...not now.

Pulling her phone from her jacket pocket, she was almost too afraid to check who it was.

Please , please, please...

Holding her breath, she unlocked her phone. To her relief, it wasn’t who she feared (this time) - it was her best friend, Molly.

[Let me know if you need anything. We’ll be over Sunday to give you a hand. XX]

A small smile pulled at Val’s lips. Molly and her boyfriend Andrew have been unbelievably supportive over the last few days, allowing her to crash on their couch whilst waiting for the keys to her apartment.

She could've continued staying until she had an actual bed to sleep in but, in all honesty, she was looking forward to being alone for a while. She was also tired of listening to the couple moan and groan throughout the night.

The walls were incredibly thin in that apartment...

The brunette sent a quick ‘thank you’ text, then set her phone face-down atop the island counter. She sighed, attempting to rub the fatigue from her face with her palms. She was so emotionally drained, she felt she could sleep forever.

Deciding perhaps a hot shower may help clear her muddled mind, Val made a beeline for her suitcase to retrieve her toiletries and a fresh set of pyjamas.

It was a tight squeeze, but she managed to reach the shower. Cold water ran for quite a while before it finally began heating up; she was only able to shower comfortably for about two minutes, but she was just relieved to have set the utilities up properly.

They don’t teach you these things in school; not in Sophomore year, at least.

Once she was dressed, Val rolled out her sleeping bag then set her pillow atop it. I’ll give Liv a call, she decided, reaching for her phone. It didn’t ring for long before Olivia - her 13-year-old half-sister - picked up.

“Hey, you,” Val greeted, settling herself on top of the makeshift bed.

“Hey!” Olivia replied eagerly. “Where the heck have you been? We haven’t seen you in ages!”

Val winced at that. If she were around, she’d know who’d be on the other line, for sure. She immediately shushed her sister.

“What?” Olivia demanded. “Why are you shushing me?”

“Are you alone?” Val anxiously demanded. “Go to your room and shut the door. Please.”

“Okay! I’m going, jeez...” Val heard a door close on the other line. “Alright, I’m in my room. Happy now?”

“Yes,” she chose to ignore the attitude. “Thank you.”

“What’s this about, then?”

Val held her breath a moment, unsure whether to tell her sister the situation. “I, uh...” she began, threading the absurdly long pillowcase tag between her fingers to help calm her nerves. “I’m...you probably won’t be seeing me for a bit.”

“Why?” Olivia asked, concerned.

“Mom and I aren’t really on speaking terms right now...” she answered, struggling to keep her voice even.

“Why, what happened-”

“Let’s just leave it at that, for now,” Val responded quickly, wanting to be rid of the awful knot that had amassed in her throat. “I’ll let you know what’s going on soon, I promise. I just need a little time to myself, right now.”

“Okay...Are you at Molly’s?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine, Liv,” she reassured. “How’s Noah?” Noah was her 10-year-old half-brother.

“He’s okay.”

“...and mom?”

“She fine, too, I guess...” her sister quietly answered.

“You guess?” Val probed. That retched knot was making its way down to her stomach now.

“Well, she isn’t really talking to us. Just been in her room a lot.”

Seriously? Val sighed, shaking her head. For fuck’s sake, mom...

“Still?” She asked, unable to hide the frustration in her voice.

“Yeah...”

“Okay...Can you do something for me?”

“Like what?”

“If at any point you need to talk, you know I’m always around, yeah? I don’t want you or Noah feeling like you can’t talk to me just because I’m not there.”

“I know. I will.”

“Thank you,” Val glanced down at the digits on her phone. 8:30pm – time for bed. “Alright, well, I should get going; I've got work in the morning, and you have school.”

“Yes, mom!” Olivia teased.

A soft chuckle escaped Val’s lips as she rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, Liv. Give Noah a hug for me, will ya?”

“Ew, no!”

“Liv...”

“Urgh, fine.”

“...and please don’t tell mom I called. I’ll talk to her later.”

“Alrighty, then. Night, sis.”

“Night.”

Val ended the call, setting her phone down beside her. She sighed and rubbed her forehead. Hopefully that call doesn’t bite me in the ass...

After hauling herself up to brush her teeth, the brunette returned to her sleeping bag where she found her phone illuminated with an incoming call – it was her mother.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Shit. She must have been listening!

What do I do?? Should I answer it? No, don’t answer it!

Val retrieved the device, promptly declining the call before she had the chance to ruminate over it further. Pushing it underneath her pillow, she held her breath, bracing herself for another call. Not even a minute later, her phone went off again. Here we go...

The brunette sat there for a moment, unsure of her next move. She hadn’t seen nor spoken to her mother in three days...

Perhaps she’s just concerned about my whereabouts?

Her phone hummed with an incoming text message. Biting her lip, she gingerly retrieved it from beneath her pillow.

[Where are you.]

Val’s fingers hovered over the keypad for what felt like forever as she decided whether to respond.

She’s just going to keep trying until I talk to her...

[At Molly’s.] She lied.

[When are you coming home?]

[I don’t know yet.]

[Enough of this bullshit, Valerie. You’ve been gone long enough. Come home. You know I need you.]

Val scoffed at that, but she couldn’t prevent the all-too-familiar feeling of guilt from creeping up on her. Perhaps I should go home...

She mentally slapped herself. No, screw that! This is your home now.

[I just need some more space, mom.]

Laying silent in her sleeping bag, Val watched as her phone illuminated, notifying her of the barrage of messages and missed calls she was receiving from her mother.

She counted two missed calls and five text messages, before the room finally went dark. Biting back tears, she turned her phone screen towards the carpet and rolled over. She cried herself to sleep that night.

---

(Two weeks later...)

“Alright you – time for bed.” Raph's eyes narrowed upon his 3-year-old 'nephew' Tyler with a playful glare. They'd just finished watching ‘Toy Story 3’ - one of the youngster’s favourite films.

The terrapin held a three-fingered hand out to guide Tyler off the couch but, apparently, he had other plans. The raven-haired boy dove head-first into his seat and giggled, daring his uncle to react.

Raph shook his head and pursed his lips, feigning a stern look. “Your mom will tan my shell if she comes home and sees you’re still awake.”

Tyler scampered to the other end of the couch and turned to him, grinning mischievously. Raph rolled his eyes. “Figured as much – you don’t give a lick about what happens to me, do ya?"

"Right, c'mere!" Tyler squealed in delight as Raph looped an arm around his middle and hoisted him off the sofa. “First, bathroom – then bed.”

The youngster wriggled as he carried him to the bathroom, to which he countered with a couple mild jabs to the ribs.

---

“Which book are we readin’ this time, bud?” Raph asked as he rifled through Tyler’s collection of books. “And don’t say-”

“Pete the Cat!” The toddler exclaimed excitedly, bouncing up and down beneath his blankets.

Raph groaned in protest. “Again?” He turned to him with a pleading look. “We read that one last time, and the time before that..."

“Pete the Cat!” Tyler insisted, growing antsy.

“Alright, alright... Pete the Cat it is, then” Raph begrudgingly retrieving the book in question and took a seat at the end of the bed.

“Pete the Cat was walkin’ down the street in his brand-new white shoes...”

Before continuing, he turned to Tyler with a stern look. “I ain’t singin’ for ya though. You can do that part. Deal?” Tyler nodded enthusiastically, and the terrapin narrowed his eyes at him, unconvinced. “Promise?” Tyler nodded again, with the same level of vigour. “Good,” he flipped to the next page. “I’m holdin’ you to that.”

Twenty minutes later, the toddler was sound asleep. Raph had retired to the couch with a beer and another movie whilst awaiting the parents’ return.

April and Casey stumbled into the apartment thirty minutes later, slightly tipsy and falling over one another.

“Hey, guys,” the terrapin greeted as he moved to turn off the television. “How’d ya go?”

“Hey, mate,” Casey replied, tossing his keys into the decorative bowl beside the front door. “Yeah, good. Movie was good, though April didn’t seem to think so.”

“I did so!” April protested; her husband scoffed. “I did like it; I just would've preferred to watch something other than a bromance movie for our anniversary...”

“Ooh, sounds right up my alley,” Raph remarked unctuously, fixing his best friend a suggestive grin. “When’s our next date night? Feel like re-watchin' that bromance movie with me?”

April groaned as Casey returned the look. “Get a room, you two! Honestly...”

Raph promptly shushed her. “Inside voices, would ya? The little monster’s sleepin’.”

The redhead gasped in realisation, then immediately shut her mouth. “Oh, crap. Sorry... How’d he go?”

“Yeah, good,” Raph replied as he rose from his seat to join the couple at the breakfast bar. “We watched Toy Story 3, again, and read Pete the Cat, again.”

“He’s a creature of habit, our boy.” April chuckled.

“Did he make you sing the song?” Casey enquired with a shit-eating grin.

Raph narrowed his eyes at him. “Whaddaya reckon?”

The three shared a hushed laugh before eventually falling silent. Raph took that as his cue to leave.

“Well, I better get goin’, before Leo loses his mind...” He started toward the fire escape, with April and Casey following close behind.

“How’s he going, anyway?” April asked gently.

Raph sighed, turning to her. “Alright, I guess... Can never tell with Leo these days, y'know?"

“Yeah...” She murmured sadly. “...W-what about you? How are you going with everything-”

Casey must have sensed Raph’s discomfort as he gently nudged his wife's arm.

“What?”

“Drop it, hun.”

“I just wanna know how he's going...”

“I know, but this ain’t the time...”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Raph finally cleared his throat. “Right. Well...” He wanted nothing more than to be as far away from this conversation as possible. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna take off now...”

“Yeah, okay,” April conceded, wrapping her arms around herself. “Thanks again for looking after him tonight. We really appreciate it.”

“Yeah. Thanks, mate.” Casey added, offering the terrapin an apologetic look.

“No problem,” Raph replied quickly, pushing open the window to the fire escape. After climbing up onto the landing, he turned to acknowledge them once more. “See ya later.” He then disappeared into the darkness, ascending swiftly and soundlessly to the roof of the building.

He’d lied. He wasn’t going home, just yet. In fact, he’d been actively avoiding the place as much as possible. Tempers flared there often and, believe it or not, he wasn’t the only one at fault for that.

The events that have transpired over the past year have left himself and his brothers reeling – one of them arguably more so than the others.

He was candor about one thing though: his eldest brother would undoubtedly clip him round the ear if he showed up later than 'agreed'. But that wasn’t any different to how he was being treated in any other circumstance; anything and everything seemed to tick Leo off these days.

So, if the consequences were roughly the same, regardless of his actions, then he might as well make the most of it.

Fuck it.

He made for his cache of goodies at one of his favourite viewing spots in Manhattan.

---

In his Nightwatcher days, Raph kept several stores of essentials dotted around the city including alcohol (for drinking, of course... and disinfecting wounds), blankets, a first aid kit and snacks on the chance he ended up stranded which, given he worked alone, was often.

Now that those days were over, he’d misplaced most of them, save for a select few. This one was his favourite; it allowed him to look out over a nice spot of trees and grass as opposed to the concrete jungle he was accustomed to.

The terrapin approached the stack of weather-worn pallets and crouched down. Reaching into it, he retrieved a small blanket enclosed in a plastic bag and unwrapped it, revealing a half-empty bottle of rum and a pouch of medical supplies. He brought the bottle and blanket to a secluded spot on the roof and got comfortable – he'd likely be here a while.

As he drank, Raph tried focusing his attention on the sounds surrounding him rather than those inside his head. They were so incredibly loud sometimes, often threatening to drown out the rest of the world. But he’d already had his moment and said his piece. He couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he wanted to. It was now time for him to move forward.

But how?

We had the chance to do something – be someone – and, as usual, I fucked it.

Now, we’re stuck living like this, in the shadows, till the whole lot of us fucking die...

He chugged the remainder of the rum, clenching his teeth as it burned all the way down. He groaned, vigorously shaking his head to ease the sensation. He set the bottle down beside him and slumped against the pallets, closing his eyes.

The sound of the door to the roof crashing open snapped Raph out of his thoughts, and he dove for cover.

Head spinning wildly from the alcohol and sudden movement, the terrapin grasped at the pallet stack for stability. Once the world finally stabilised, he pulled himself into a crouched position, peering cautiously over the stack to get a glimpse of the asshole who’d disturbed his pity party.

It was a woman.

He found her pacing from one end of the building to the other, head down and arms wrapped around her incredibly small frame; frantically muttering things he could barely comprehend. Fortunately, he was able to decipher some of the repeated sentences like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘fuck you’... and the one that launched his heart into his throat: ‘please, make it stop’...

Shit...

He was gonna have to tread lightly here. A distressed person atop a five-storey building could end catastrophically if he wasn’t careful. He knew that if the situation escalated then he would need to intervene, but he doubted his alien appearance would be of any comfort to them. What if he made things worse?

The woman raised her hands from her body and ran them through her short, dark locks. Raph watched carefully as she stopped in front of the service door, cradling her head. She remained there a few moments, shifting her weight from one heel to the other.

What she did next well and truly threw him for a loop. In a sudden burst of anger, she balled one hand into a tight fist and drew back, throwing it against the brick wall with all her might.

Raph gawked in disbelief as this tiny human continued her assault – with both fists. He winced at the resounding crunch; she immediately pulled away, crying out in pain. A low growl escaped her lips and he was, yet again, left stunned by her actions.

She kicked the wall – she fucking kicked it – as if she were punishing it for hurting her.

Breathless, the woman finally backed away, hands darting toward her chest. Her body trembled like she were a volcano about to erupt.

Raph braced himself.

It could go either way at this point. He hoped that, by beating on the inanimate object, she would've gotten it all out of her system and just needed some time to cool off.

But he could be wrong, and he didn’t want to be wrong...

Knees buckling, she collapsed to her knees and started bawling. Raph’s heart sank as he fought the urge to look away. It was unlike any cry he’d heard before; it felt deeper, sadder, helpless - raw. It was incredibly painful to watch. What happened? He couldn’t help but wonder...

Raph turned outward to rest his aching body against the pallet stack. He listened as her condition steadily grew more subdued, to the point where he could barely hear her at all.

That was a good sign, wasn’t it? She seemed calmer, more in control. Should he leave? Should he stay? He didn’t want to intrude any further than what was necessary.

He shifted again to check on her – she was gone.

Shit.

He’d lost her. How could he have lost her?? Surely, he would've heard the service door open if she'd used it, so she must still be up here with him.

Panicked, the terrapin craned his neck to get a better view of the area. He turned toward the door – nothing. He turned to his left, toward the edge of the building she previously approached.

There she stood, mere feet from the thigh-high concrete barricade; the only thing separating her from a fifty-foot drop to the pavement below.

Before he knew what was happening, he'd leapt from his hiding place, shouting for her to “STOP!”. The woman let out a startled shriek as she whirled around to face him. He’d landed a few feet from her, close enough to reach her should the need arise.

He got a better look at her then, aided slightly by the yellowy glow emanating from above the service door.

She looked young, about eighteen- to twenty-years-old if he dared to take a guess. Her plump lips and large, wide set brown eyes were in stark contrast to her pale, almost translucent skin. Her hair was short and choppy, with the longest strands sitting just above her narrow shoulders.

She looked thin – too thin. He could see just about every bone in her body, save for the areas covered by her absurdly large shirt and sweatpants.

Raph’s nostrils twitched at the familiar scent of blood. Remembering her scuffle with the brick wall, he glanced down to inspect her hands; they were tightly wound around herself, hidden beneath folds of her shirt. No matter, the red smeared across the white fabric told him everything he needed to know.

As Raph lifted his gaze to hers, she flinched. “It’s alright,” he reassured. Cautiously, he brought his hands to his plastron – palms out – so she could inspect them. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya...”

Her eyes darted to his open palms, then back again, her already rapid breathing growing quicker. She stepped back.

“Hey, don’t-” Raph’s stomach lurched as her backside pressed against the barricade, the sudden obstacle causing her to lose balance. She screamed, flailing her arms out in a vain attempt to stop herself.

She was going over.

The terrapin lunged forward, grasping her forearm to steady her. She grabbed him instinctively, nails digging into his scales as she frantically grappled for stability.

“It’s alright," he gasped. “I gotcha...” He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. She trembled against him as he carefully turned her away from the edge, then ever so slowly released her arm.

“Oh, shit...” She struggled loosening her grip on his arms. “Oh, f-fuck!”

A few moments passed before she finally worked up enough courage to let go, and his gaze fell on hers once again. It wasn’t just fear he saw in her eyes this time; there appeared to be something else...guilt? Shame? He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but it surprised him.

Her eyes darted back to the edge of the building, then to him, then to the door. “I’m...I’m so-”

Raph’s brow-ridge furrowed in both concern and disbelief. What’s goin’ on here? Is she seriously tryna apologise? To me? Why? What the heck for? What?!

She didn’t stick around long enough for him to find out.

He watched as she retreated for the door and disappeared.

---

Masterlist / Chapter 2

[ltwilliammowett]

Eat my Hat

Now it was difficult to smoke aboard and if it was possible, then only at the smoking lamp or at the galley and at permitted times. Therefore, many chewed their tobacco. Pipe and tobacco were usually not carried on the body but kept in the ditty bag or sea chest so that nothing happened there.

Three Sailors having a break at the galley, smoking a pipe and having some tea or coffee, HMS Union of London, by unknown 1823 (x)

Chewing tobacco, on the other hand, was kept on the man because it could be consumed in between. Only the storage was a bit more difficult, because it was not so easy to just put it in the pocket if they had to reckon with losing it while working aloft. That's why the Sailors put their chewing tobacco under their hats and the linings became then soaked with sweat and tobacco juice over the time.

Now there wasn't always tobacco to buy, or the gentleman didn't have enough money to buy it, so he took the linings out of the hat and chewed it instead. Hence the exclamation "eat my hat".