#+ use heat gun on hat to shape it a bit

[raziraphale]

I know I got a lot done and will finish in time but it's stressful having a bunch of smaller tasks left because yeah I'm almost done yet I cannot post a selfie yet so the finish line seems so distant...

I love how last year I was like I'm not putting off working on my cosplay like that again that was so stressful. yet here I am again with one week left and so much sewing to do lmao

[the-kr8tor]

I finally caved in. Hello Katy may I request cowboy Hobie with a farmer reader who live on a ranch together. (That’s the main idea but you could change or add anything also your choice to make it angsty/fluff etc.). 🤠

Cowboy! Hobie request let's gooooo!!! Thank you for requesting! 😘

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Cowboy AU, Western AU, established relationship, lovestruck Hobie, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You're ogling. It's not a crime to ogle your partner per se but with how your horse Luna is currently side-eyeing you whilst you brush her mane, ogling should be illegal. Or at least in your shared ranch. How could you not ogle Hobie when he looks like that?

You sigh deeply, eyes shaped like hearts at his glistening chest. Sweat dripping on his skin like tiny diamonds sparkling in the heat of the golden sun. His arm muscles are prominent as he heaves heavy hay bales over his shoulder. The blue jeans he's currently sporting hugs his legs perfectly like it was tailored only for him. Belt buckle glimmering, a dark cowboy hat protecting him from the sun, and dark cowboy boots to match— you should be arrested by how your eyes are glued to him and him only— even though your animals need your attention.

He knows that you're staring with how his pierced lips subtly curl into a smirk and how he's currently making an effort to stay in your line of sight even though the hay bales definitely don't need to be placed a few feet away from the field to the barn. He has been going back and forth for a while that he feels like his feet have carved a path on the dusty field.

You sigh longingly again and Luna has had enough of you. She huffs loudly, air coming out of her pink nose, head bumping yours to get your attention when her neighing couldn't.

“Hey, girl, what's your problem?” You pat her nose to calm her down. She kicks at the dusty ground, making sure her annoyance is palpable. “Carrots right, sorry.”

You swear you heard Hobie chuckle. But when you turn to look at him, he's currently busy with stacking hay, seemingly unaware. He hides his grin behind the shadow of his hat.

Feeding Luna her favourite treat, she happily chews noisily. Craning your neck to go back to the gun show, you knit your eyebrows to see his usual spot empty.

“Lookin' for me?” Hobie scares the tumbleweeds out of you. He pokes your side, making you jump in place. “You were starin’ a bit too hard. I swear there's holes on my back havin' the same shape as your eyeballs. At this point you gotta pay me, sweetheart.” He shoots you a wink, adding to your quickening heartbeat. Going around the pale horse, his smirk never leaves his face.

He leans over Luna's saddle, face perched on his hands with a smile that could stop someone's heart. Tilting his head, eyebrows raised, he waits for your clever reply. There's only crickets singing in your head with how he looks at you like you hung the sun for him. He just stares at you lovingly, perfectly content, perfectly happy even with all the grime dusted on his chiseled cheeks.

You feel like you've fallen for him all over again.

Copying his movements, you lean over Luna's saddle, facing him with the same love and softness he's currently showing just for you.

After what seemed like hours has passed just from throwing each other heart eyes from looking, you finally speak with a tone that Hobie could only describe as lovestrucked.

“Do I get a discount at least?”

He sucks in his teeth with fake annoyance. “Nah, don't think so, love. You can only see these muscles right here.” Patting his bicep, you laugh.

He thinks he's in heaven.

“That’s true, the sight alone is a rare commodity around here.”

Reaching for your hand, indulging himself with your mere touch, he intertwines your fingers together with his, like vines that grow and weave around each other, never letting go.

“You good? Heat isn't killing you?” He asks you like he's not the one toiling away outside with the sun bearing down at him.

You shake your head, bringing his hand up to your lips to reassure him. You feel the raised skin atop his knuckles, taking extra care, you kiss each one gently. “Nope, I'm melting but I can handle it.”

“Melting from the heat or from the show I gave you?”

You giggle, rolling your eyes, it's his turn to press a sweet kiss over your knuckles. “I should be the one asking you that. You alright? You're sweating a lot.” Wiping his forehead, he closes his eyes, his smile deepens with every wipe.

“Got it all?”

“Mm-hmm”

“Now do my pits,” He raises his arms above his head. “they're awfully sweaty, sweetheart.” He jokes with a deep chuckle.

Hobie expects for you to flinch away, or even screech and run away but you just shrug. “Sure,” your acceptance has him flabbergasted and endeared. “I've cleaned blood off of you, sweat is nothing compared to that.”

“Holy shit,” he says softly, almost a whisper as he goes around Luna to come near you— impossibly near as he holds your face in his hands. You don't mind the smell of hay clinging to his palms or sweat as you lean to his touch, eyes shining and full of affection for the man before you. “You think the reverend is free today?”

Chuckling, you knit your eyebrows in confusion. “What? Why?”

“So I could marry you today.” He says it with certainty that you're sure it's not the heat that has your legs almost crumbling. “Obviously.”

If horses could roll their eyes, Luna would be doing it right now.

[caleohateclub]

My fav random details from TTC:

Chiron wears curlers in his tail

Artemis doesn't like when her hunters "Grow up" or "get too silly"

Grover got a black eye trying to help the hunters into their cabin.

The Hunters have a silver flag for CTF!

The Hunters have won CTF 56 times in a row

Grover camped outside the Hunters' cabin at night "Just to be near them."

All the Hunters' skin glow like they've been "taking showers in liquid moonlight"

Bianca's eyes vaguely remind Percy of someone famous but he couldn't think of who

Percy was gonna give Poseidon a seashell patterned tie for fathers day

Percy was planning on using riptide to write Christmas cards

Anytime Percy is near a beach, hippocampi will ask him to help them with their problems

Percy can see the heat of living forms and the cold of the currents when he's deep underwater

Camp sells orange thermal underwear at the store

Luke's hair was pretty grey and his scar was an ugly red as if it had recently been re-opened

Percy has always been a pretty good pitcher (but he's not really a baseball guy)

"Many mortals will fight for any cause as long as they are paid"

Grover played "race car driver" when sitting in a Lamborghini

Percy had a "The White Stripes" CD that sally loved because they reminded her of Led Zeppelin

Apollo's fake name of choice is "Fred"

Percy got freaked out talking to Bianca when the thought of her looking 12 for years after he died came into his brain.

Bianca only felt comfortable leaving Nico at camp because she figured he would be safe if there were people like Percy there

Percy really liked talking to Bianca

Bianca, after finding out how long she'd been trapped in the Lotus Casino, checked her hands to make sure they weren't wrinkled

Bianca wanted to take a hair clip shaped like a moon that turned into a Hunter's bow she found

Percy found an electric guitar shaped like Apollo's lyre

Bianca's last words were "Get it to raise its foot!"

Zoe has ancient beef with naiads

Rachel's hair is "Reddish-Brownish"

Zoe got bored and started shooting arrows at billboards and Target store signs as she was flying

Zoe dressed Percy up in a ragged flannel shirt, jeans three sizes too big, bright red sneakers, and a floppy rainbow hat

As Percy was fighting Nereus, he waved to a crowd of tourists "Yeah, we do this every day here in San Francisco".

Percy wanted to ask Nereus about Annabeth because "that's what he cared about most"

The Ophiotaurus is 500 pounds

Dionysus's blessing cause the sun to be tinted with purple, and the air to smell like wine

A guard bit his gun like it was a sword and ran around on all fours like a dog

Percy was basically about to confess that he liked Annabeth on Olympus

[demonpikmin]

MASTER SHAKE'S STRAW FOR COSPLAY

EVA foam (I used 6mm thickness) first time using Eva foam? https://youtu.be/dN3NHy7Asqc?si=xw5WCLOEKci1tYAp

Contact cement (for EVA foam)

Respirator and/or a well-ventilated area like outside

Heating gun or an iron

Exacto knife/Hobby knife

Kwik seal

Clear Plasti dip

Acrylic Paints

—————————————

Pink structured baseball cap (Velcro backing works best imo)

Lipton ice tea bottle

Needle and thread

Scissors

—————————————-

If you have prior experience with using Eva foam this is relatively a light project. Eva is great for armor and prop cosplay, it’s light and durable. If this is your first time using Eva foam I highly recommend watching KamuiCosplay on YouTube she goes over the basics and what you need to know about Eva foam, heat sealing it and priming it.

This is my first time making a step-by-step thing, i don't have every photo for each step due to being in a time crunch.

EDIT: for cosplay something called like the 5 foot rule (someone please correct me if I’m wrong) where it’s you make something big enough to be noticeable from a couple of feet or more because thats how far away people are going to see you at a con.

____________________

Inside of hat

1 Empty Lipton iced tea bottle (using the neck up from the bottle)

Extremely important to not lost the cap and to keep the rest of the lid and twist part intact along with the long neck of the bottle (cut the neck just above the body of the bottle) The circumference of the cap will be used to measure the circumference of entirety of the straw. I am not good with math so what i did was tape the edge of a piece of paper and gently rolled it until it met with the paper again

The neck of the bottle will be cut into 4 sections length wise; these flat sections will lie inside of the hat and on top of your head. This is where to use a heating gun or an iron. In my case I only had an iron available to me. So, I took parchment paper between the iron and the plastic and heated it and bending them back one by one. Be sure to either sand or heat the cut corners so they don’t cut into you or the hat. I was under a time crunch so most of this prop was half assed

The flat parts will be used for support and keeping the straw upright

The twist and cap part of bottle will be used as a base to hold the straw in a “up” position

Very important to have a structured hat, it will help give support.

The button on the hat will be cut out, It seems small BUT this is where the bottle will be pushed through the hole in the hat.

After a hole is cut, much smaller hole than the circumference of the cap. This will be so the hat will be fitted around the neck of the bottle. Push the top of the bottle through so it’s just the twist part showing. KEEP THIS IN WHILE SEWING. Start to stitch below the cut to keep the seams of the hat secure and together.

heres how to start a knot: Basic Hand Sewing - Tying a Starting Knot (youtube.com)

heres how to finish off with a knot: Basic Hand Sewing - Tying a Finishing Knot (youtube.com)

i did the blanket stitch so the hat was fitted around the neck of the bottle. like the picture above the plastic support is now fitted onto the hat. So, if the hat gets knocked off of you or anything the prop will still be in one piece!

Building the straw

The foam will shrink a bit due from the heat making make a snug fit on the cap. When this happens, after the contact cement has been applied and the foam has been shaped to your desirer Kwik seal is good for filling those cracks in. when the whole thing is glued together there will be some spaces where the bendy part meets the top straw, i honestly filled it with a bunch of Kwik seal and painted it over. Once it's all glued this is where Plasti Dip comes in, it help seals in the foam from the acrylic paints. it takes a few layers of Plasti Dip i think i used 2-3 layers with 30 mins in between dry time. I also diy some metallic paint with eyeshadow to make it glisten in the sun.

Below are the mesuments of how long the bottom and top straw should be. (8 inches and 3/4ths) 9 inches basically VVVVV

this is the bottom half of the straw (7 1/2 inches to make it easier)VVVVVV and the bend of the straw, it will be 2 pieces. I really struggled with the bendy part. if anyone else finds a better way to make it please tag me ill add it onto this

the top half of the straw is short so when the straw is glued inside the "bendy" part of the straw so it may seem shorter when all put together. I don't remember much of putting the straw together to due outside stressors and con crunching

After the foam has been cut heat it up, you should see it seal itself. when its hot get it into a round tubelike shape, it make take a few times depending on what tool you're using (heating gun or iron) MAKE SURE YOU DO NOT MELT THE CAP!! while its still warm fit the cap in one end of the straw so it keeps that shape. i did not glue the straw to the cap. the foam will be tight enough for it NOT to need glue and now if needed it can be broken down for easier storage.

but it was basically heat shaping the bend of the straw, it was 2 sperate pieces that were beveled inward, heated and shaped and then glued. after that the upper straw piece was inside and when it was ready, it was heated and then glued finally. I glue some scrap pieces of foam on the bend to give it more wrinkles,,,i honestly don't know why i did that i was already mentally checked out

Sooo i think thats it for the tutorial. Hopefully i covered everything best I can. Feel free if you guys have found better ways to build this prop, all i ask is that DONT put it behind a paywall and please tag me/credit me when sharing and reposting.

It’s not required but is appreciated if you leave a kofi for me https://ko-fi.com/zimvatt

[turtlestm]

headcanons for fem!ash lynx that i dont think i've shared here

just some headcanons i made for fun of ideas for a female version of ash :> these are all headcanons i made because i feel like ash being female would directly affect these factors of his character, but people who write fem!ash don't take them into account

just so you know, a couple of these may be a little upsetting but they will be tw'd appropriately ^__^

btw, i think her name would be Jade Aslan Callenreese since Aslan is used as a gender neutral middle name as well as a first name. i think the name she'd be known as would be Bobby Jay. since her male counterpart is named after a lynx, i thought it'd be nice to have her name changed to be after bobcats instead of lynxes because a) the name "jay lynx" doesn't flow as well as "ash lynx" and b) bobcats and lynxes are both wild cats under the genus Lynx. pretty neat :D

just thought i'd mention that first so no one gets confused by me calling her jay instead of something like "ash" or "ashe"

alr lets get started !

1.) TW: forced sterilization, past CSA

ok starting off with the most potentially triggering one but this is the worst it'll get i promise. anywho i havent seen anyone mention or consider this when writing her in fics but i hc that she was medically sterilized ever since she was brought in to be a child prostitute. its a kinda fucked thing up to headcanon but i feel like it'd kinda make sense and its another piece of herself that she was never given agency over. due to this, conversations about or mentioning pregnancy around her are a subject to avoid, regardless of whether or not she ever wanted or would have considered kids of her own

2.) TW: sexual assault

another thing i dont hear ppl talk about with making jay's story work out is the whole prison thing. i think garvey and his guys would, rather than being inmates, be guards planted by dino since jay would be placed in a women's prison and iirc women's prisons have some male guards (correct me if im wrong).

i also see the guard thing as making a bit more sense because of the immediate assumed authority in that role from other inmates and that i cant see the whole horniness and sexual assault parts of the prison arc being replicated with garvey as a woman. yes female rapists do exist irl but it'd be less believable in the banana fish universe considering all the powerful, primarily male connections that dino and his associates have at their disposal

3.) a bit less serious and upsetting one here :> i hc that jay would dress masc and that shes a total tomboy. not just as an act of teenage rebellion but as a true, deep-seeded facet of her personality. she'd be just as boyish as ash. she also wears baseball caps backwards because there's no way you don't also think she would.

she also does so not just to be a tomboy, but to hide her body. she has a smaller-than-average chest so it's easy to conceal but she really doesn't appreciate being looked at sexually, nor does she like any chance of it happening while she's minding her own. since so much attention drawn to her body is because of her nymphish appearance, she loathes wearing clothing that accentuates her body shape or makes her look delicate due to assumptions already made about her

4.) to ride off of the last one, she'd be exceptionally great at crossdressing. her voice has a natural rasp to it and she's quite tall and very capable of effortless androgyny. she could easily look like the opposite sex by doing as little as hiding her hair in her hat and changing her posture. she makes a damn good young man and her authentic toughness makes it even easier since she doesn't need to play up her personality to do so

5.) she carries her gun in her waistband in a conspicuous manner because as a woman, it's more dangerous walking alone out in the streets of NYC. so she makes sure everyone knows she's packing heat while also getting a little kick out of peoples' reactions when they see it on her

6.) although dino's wardrobe he allows her for whenever jay needs to dress up for meals or whatever is strictly feminine, her persistence in being boyish was enough to convince dino to humor her. she's now allowed to wear pants to meals, but he refuses her any wiggle room for formal events and will see to it that she wears a dress

7.) dino absolutely never lays off on her about her masculine personality and lets it be known to her that her attempts to "be a man" are futile because she "must always know that he will decide what happens to her body because he is her owner". even though she never considered herself a man, it hurt like hell whenever she would be punished by having all of her modes of expression stripped from her

8.) mild TW: dysphoria, self hatred, internalized misogyny

at times, she wishes at times that she were a boy because due to her circumstances, she believes what happened to her would never happen if she weren't a girl. she grew up loathing her own gender, unable to shower or see herself naked without being reminded of her body and feeling furious at the world for making her this way. even though she'd seen boys her age who were in her same position, she still feels as though she might have had a chance at normalcy in her life if she never had been born a girl or even born at all. she knows it is an irrational thought and that none of it is her fault, yet she has internalized her rage for the world towards herself and her own sex

those are all the headcanons i have so far for her :D let me know your thoughts on these little brain worms i randomly had late at night one time

hope all my fellow ash lynx kinnies and likers resonate with these lil thoughts i had ^_^ have a good night

[red1culous]

Tabula Rasa part 2

Part 1 // 2

Dusting her hands off she turns to head back inside eager to finish the movie but her movements stutter when she sees a black, sinewy shape enter her trailer. She checks the gun holstered in the waistband of her pants.

Reaching the front door she pushes it open slowly, straining to see inside without actually sticking her head through the doorway. Seeing no-one she takes a hold of the doorknob and thrusts the door as wide as it would go. 

The door swings open faster than she had expected and she loses her balance ending up on her front. She rolls over and looks up to find you staring down at her.

You had a puzzled look on your face which is soon replaced by your customary smirk. You extend a hand to her which she accepts. 

Pulling her up to her feet you chuckle lowly at her annoyed expression. “Nice of you to pop by” you say charmingly. “I find that knocking on the door usually works better than barging into a room but that’s just me” you add with a wink.

“What are you doing here?” Natasha asks removing her jacket and hat.

You shoot her a look. “”Glad to see you baby, I’ve missed you so much”, was more the reaction I was hoping for” you say as you lower yourself to sit on the arm of her sofa. 

“You know what I mean, Y/N” she says rolling her eyes. “You can’t be here. What if someone followed you.”

You stand and take a step and a half towards her. Hooking your index fingers into her belt loops you tug her closer until her front meets yours.

“I was careful,” you sigh into her space, “no-one followed me. I had a branch sticking out of my jeans covering my tracks.”

“Did you really?” she asks her mood a little bit brighter than it was a few minutes ago. When you answer with a grin she wraps her arms around your neck while giving you a kiss on the lips. 

You try to deepen the kiss but she pulls away abruptly with a grunt. “You’re soaked through” she exclaims feebly pushing you away with a hand on your chest. You smile at her and it’s then she notices that you’re shivering slightly and that your teeth are chattering. 

“Only for you, my love” you attempt and she tsk’s you.

“Take off your clothes before you catch a cold and die” she says as she she manages to pry you off of her. She ducks into the bedroom and grabs a set of clean, warm clothes.

“You know…” you say through lowered eyelashes, “…if you wanted to get me naked—“

“Y/N” she cups your face in her hands.

“Yes my love” you answer.

“Go and change” she instructs shoving you in the direction of her bedroom and smacking your ass for good measure.

While you change Natasha uses the time to tidy up her tiny space. She shuts the lid of her laptop and moves it away from the sofa. Just as you appear from the bedroom she has already prepared you tea, just the way you like it.

“Thank you” you say as you lower yourself onto the sofa. 

“My pleasure.” The warmth of her eyes pull on Natasha. She passes you the cup of tea and you sigh as the heat begins to spread from your fingers throughout your body.

“Did you manage to see a doctor while you were gone?” she asks situating herself beside you, one knee tucked underneath her body so she was somewhat facing you. 

“Mmm about that” you start and you can see the frown form on Nat’s perfect forehead. 

“Y/N—“ she warns.

“I went to the doctors,” you quickly add using one hand rub her knee, “I just didn’t go back for a follow up. It’s not like I haven’t been stabbed before. I know how to take care and clean stitches myself.”

“Fine” she huffs clearly annoyed. She knew how much you hated doctors and hospitals so knowing you even took her advice to see one in the first place would have to do. “But I want to inspect it myself later.”

“Again with wanting to see me naked, Romanoff. You know you just need to ask” you grin from behind your tea cup.

“You—“ she takes the empty cup from your hands and puts it on the floor by the sofa, “—are insufferable” she continues pushing your shoulders back until you’re lying flat on it. She straddles your waist and just looks at you. You can see that she’s searching your eyes for something, you don’t quite know what, but you’re happy to indulge her. 

“Hey you okay” you ask after a few minutes of intense staring. 

She blinks a few times but keeps her eyes trained on you. “I honestly don’t know how I am.” She sighs before continuing, “I’m thinking about Mason.”

You laugh and push yourself up onto your elbows. Nat has to steady herself because of the abrupt movement. “Seriously Nat!You’re straddling me and thinking about your fixer?”

It takes her a moment to process your words. You see a smile erupt as if in slow motion across her lips and up to her eyes. She laughs from above you before gently lowering herself so her head is tucked safely under your chin. 

“No!” she says, “not like that, you idiot. I was thinking I should’ve never agreed to him splitting us up.”

“Well it’s good that you finally agree with me on something” you say lowering yourself back down and wrapping your arms around her back. 

“Jerk” she mutters into your collarbone. You can feel the smile on her face. She adjusts her legs so she’s now positioned in between your thighs. 

“Baby…” you say after a few minutes of just enjoying feeling her weight above you, grounding you. She answers with a soft hum. “I’m still gonna kill Mason, just so you know.”

Join the taglist: HERE

[sturmdrayco]

Sorry to bother you, my wife and I are working on making a Leonardo Da Vinci Caster cosplay for her and it's our first cosplay (I'm hoping to do a Warframe one eventually, but actual cloth costumes first)- do you have any advice on how to do details, etc? We seem to have the general shape of things down and already have the cloak & skirts done.

Ooh, Da Vinci! I'd say I'm still winging it with the fabric stuff; my experience is mostly with armor and props. If by details you mean stuff like the applique or something...

I did this for my sister a couple years back. Zhongli cosplay. Made pattern, cut fabric, applied clear nail polish to edges, pinned to base garment, used one of the buttonhole stitch settings on my sewing machine for the edges. I was improvising then. Something similar would probably be done on the stocking details, but I have no experience with stretchy fabric yet.

For the curvy edges... just. Lots of pins so they hold the shape while sewing.

The star patterns on the blue fabric... If it were me I'd just use a stencil and fabric paint if there's nowhere to buy it from. Several layers of it so the yellow looks good. However, the pattern might be generic enough that you can get fabric already printed with it somewhere.

The small accessories hanging from the collar (and hat depending on Ascension level)... small chains with gems... I'm not sure about your access to supplies so you might or might not have to make the gems and stuff yourself. Usually for these I use those rigid PVC sheets. Cut and whittle with cutters as needed. Maybe something like foam clay or resin stuff if you wanna be fancy. Put some thin wire hoops to attach them to the chains. Or you could use EVA foam here as well. 2mm. Also works with the fleur-de-lis looking brooch.

If Props:

Speaking of EVA foam... 5mm and 2mm thickness should cover all kinds of needs in this case. PVC piping for the staff. at this scale (and in most situations), contact cement for gluing together. Measure to proportion, make patterns, trace onto foam, cut with cutters. Make sure the blades are sharp for the smoothest cuts.

You can do a lot of stuff with EVA foam. So much stuff. If you plan on using it more in the future, I suggest getting a heat gun. Smooths out the foam. Priming before painting... I live in Japan so I use something like Zeque... rubber paint similar to Plastidip but much cheaper. For something much easier to get... Wood glue diluted with water, 3-4 coats of it or until satisfactory. Thin layers. Let previous layer dry before next one. This one's not flexible though - if the foam bends, wrinkles can't be avoided.

If Gauntlet:

5mm foam would probably be enough for the base gauntlet... or anything, really. Maybe 2mm foam for the smaller details. The gold filigree and trim detailing on the gauntlet... I'd paint them on. Paint those parts of the gauntlet gold first, have a pattern ready cut from some sticker paper of the details, put those on, paint the rest of the gauntlet. Once the dark blue paint dries, you can remove the sticker paper mask. The green bits... EVA foam as well, the final coat of paint would have to be something very glossy for the shine.

I'm not sure how you want to do the gauntlet. Will you keep the proportions, a.k.a. very big, or shrink it to fit the wearer's hand? Building it to proportion is more complicated - need to build a rig first that's fixed to the wearer's hand with something flexible for the core of the gauntlet digits, and string to pull the gauntlet digits. And since you'd hold the staff with the same hand, your hand has to be outside for the grip. Should be okay if the gauntlet digits are big enough to cover them.

If Staff:

The more organic-looking bits of the staff... I'd use foam clay, but if you think you can do it with just EVA foam, do that instead. Not sure how expensive foam clay is for you. Change your cutting angle to make sloped edges, trim with scissors - whatever works.

For ease of transport you may need to plan on splitting the staff in parts. Maybe the star, then the handle, then the bottom tip? Attachment might be complicated, so you may not want them detachable as well.

Clear plastic acetate for the star. This one's complicated. Hot glue could work. Lots of triangles. I'll just look this up if it were me. Don't be pressured to make this glow.

Not sure what else I can say about this unless you ask for something very specific, but I wish y'all well in this project!

[poecatherinek-g]

Finishing my rat

I started the finishing stages of my model by re-making the hat that had been made previously. I did this because it looked a bit too ruff and some of it had ripped. I used exactly the same method as I did last time but I hollowed out the inside part of the hat before I put the thin sheet on top so I wouldn't ruin it. Once I was happy with the shape of the hat I baked it in the oven for 10 minutes.

Once I had tackled the hat it was time for the tail. I started by doing a little trial of where the tail would be and how it would be positioned in the tin. For this I just roughly attached a worm of sculpy onto the body.

After I had done that, I had to figure out a method for doing this tail. One of the methods involved using armature wire covered in tin foil as a base but that would of made the tail too ridged and not floppy enough. In the end I settled on using wire but only on the base of the tail, having the rest just be sculpy. This meant that the connection between the tail and the body would be pretty stable and the tail would at least have some level of structural integrity to it. Once I had got the tail into the pose I wanted, I used the heat gun to set it in place whilst it was positioned in the tin so it wouldn't lose it's shape. I did accidentally break off the end of his tail after it had been cured but it was easily fixed with super glue. One of the things I love about how I did his tail is that it helps him stand up which was one of the things I wanted to include as I thought he may need some extra support.

Now that Iv'e finely finished the sculpting process, all that's left to do is the painting and adding of all his accessories:

Pirate hat (+feather?)

Belt bag (+cheese)

Whiskers

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

@wizisbored cowboy beetlejuice tells lydia a definitely not embellished story of one of his heists

"Alright kid, picture this," BJ starts.

They're on a long ride through the desert, with only the scraggly weeds and their horses and each other for company, and the sun is high overhead. Every few minutes, Lydia takes her bolero off and uses it to fan her sweaty face. At least having her hair shorn this short is a bit of a relief from the usual hot, sticky feeling of hair on the back of her neck. BJ is riding along side her, clearly not bothered by the temperature. She wishes, briefly, she could be dead too, just so she wouldn't have to endure the sun anymore, but just because he can't feel the heat doesn't mean his rotten meat isn't reacting slightly to it. She pulls Emily's reigns, widens the gap between herself and the smell of a dead man, and replaces her hat on her head as she listens. "So I'm runnin' with this posse, right?" he starts, gloved hands gripping Sandy's reigns. "Real wild group. Ten or so men, all of em just as likely to cut yer throat in th' night as they are to buy you a drink th' night before. Never know what's gonna happen with em."

"Why do outlaws and New York socialites have so much in common?" she muses, as their horses plod along. "Them high society types are way worse," BJ snorts. "They won't even do th' throat slittin' themselves. They just hire men of our ilk to do it for em." Our ilk. That makes her smile.

"S'besides th' point, though. Don't distract me, kid, or I won't-" "Remember which part is true and which is a lie?" she taunts. He fakes offense. "Storytellin' is an important part of an outlaw's life," he says. "Bullshittin' an' comin' up with stories is how you flex yer mental muscles, which are like to atrophy on long trudges through th' desert, such as th' one we find ourselves on." "Well aren't you unusually verbose?" He apparently doesn't know that word, and doesn't know if he should be insulted or not. "So you're with this posse?" Lydia prompts. "Oh. Right! An' we ride up through th' mountains an' th' woods into Chico. There's all these logger barons there," he explains. "Big opulent palaces of wealth, an' th' boys, they figure with th' ten of us, we should be able to bust in an' rob th' joint, no issue." "There were eleven men," Lydia corrects. "Counting you." His squints, seems to be mentally counting as she laughs softly at him. "Eleven, right. Well however many there was, we was armed to th' teeth. Real deadly. We wait until nightfall, an' then three of us kicked in th' front door, an' three kicked in th' back, an' then we all stormed th' place, roused that rich asshole from his bed an' stuck a pistol barrel in his mouth."

He's not a bad storyteller, when he gets going. She can picture it clearly, and maybe she's drawing on her own experiences. The shape of the baron's house. The garden out front, once tended with love by a woman who treated everything in her life the way she treated that garden, and who was robbed from Lydia's life too soon. The way the opulent wallpaper shimmers slightly in the moonlight, threads of silver interwoven into it. The marble floors and the meticulously polished pounded tin ceiling panels, kept sparkling by hired help. The expensive imported silk sheets on top of a feather bed, newly installed electric lights casting a steady glow, a far cry from the flicker of oil lamps she's grown used to. "Did you hurt him?" she asks softly, picturing Charles against her will, a barrel in his mouth. Her gun. Her glaring down at him, hand on the trigger. "Nah," Beetlejuice says easily, and that whole scene melts away. They're back in the desert. Her eyes are damp. He doesn't notice as she wipes them with her sleeve. "Robbed him blind, though. An' found his armory, an' got myself acquainted with my pearl handled pistol." He sighs, fondly. Lydia rides in silence for a long moment. "You said you paid for that pistol," she points out, after a moment. "Sure I did," Beej grins at her. "So here's th' story of how one of them cowards robbed me, an' how I had to buy my gun back, an' get my revenge, all in one night-"

And he starts on another winding tail as the continue their trek across the sands.

..

[shittybundaskenyer]

✹ ▬   𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 [ THE ART OF THIEVERY PART II ]

rating: Explicit

pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

summary: You miss your meeting with Arthur at the church. He comes to investigate.

warnings: low honor Arthur (low honor arthur but he's too nice here so more like medium), deputy Arthur, reader is a thief, strangers to lovers, lust at first sight, catching some feelings, midnight swim, horse theft, sexual tension, some touching and spicy thoughts 

word count: 4532

a/n: so i guess this is a mini multichapter-thing now. i planned 5 parts at least so stay tuned guys! i know i promised more spice and it’s coming!!! i just have to set up things first. you get some feels and some touching until then. <3

PREVIOUS PART   |   MASTERLIST   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN | NEXT PART

After that night in the Parlour House you become almost like a duo with Arthur. He chats up the folks in the saloon, plays the part of a good lawman—with his rare charming smiles and that telltale glint in his eyes—while you go and slip your delicate little hands into hidden pockets and heavy-looking purses. 

The only problem is, you can't sell everything at the fence now. You know the guy, Clarence, a slimy little weasel who set up shop next to the caravan where your temporary home is. But the thing is, he doesn't buy from you no more. He thinks it's gettin' suspicious, so many pretty jewelry, so many angry rich folk, so you're left with a whole lotta stolen goods stored under your bed and no place to get rid of them. 

And you didn't show up at the church yesterday with Arthur's share.

Every time he arrives to that church, dressed up as Gray’s deputy, looking like a goddamn poster-boy for the law—it becomes more and more. The way he coaxes the money out of you—not that you would not give it to him anyway; but Jesus, he loves playing with you. Having you pressed up against the crumbling stone wall with his hands in your skirt, one seeking out the treasure from your pockets and one petting you between the thighs until you yield, until you bite into his lip and draw blood. 

Fuck.

This will be the second day in a row you can’t go. Christ, he’s gonna be so angry.

You turn onto your side, kicking down the threadbare blanket from your legs, almost whining from the stuffy heat. It rolled in from the bayou a few days back and got stuck in Rhodes like an unwanted guest. The night is infuriatingly hot. Your hair sticks to the nape of your neck, like a kiss from a previous lover, and you button open the top of the chemise you're sleeping in. Or rather, trying to sleep in.

This is the first night you're spending at home since forever and you can't even close your eyes. 

You rise from your bed with a sigh, wiping your forehead with the back of your palm while you reach for a crate that you use as a makeshift bedside table. You feel over the wood until you find what you're searching for—a pack of smokes.

You put a cigarette between your lips and light it with a match you found under your bed. 

There’s a mirror to the side, stolen from a homestead back north, a frilly, gold-dusted thing with a cracked corner. You can see the smoke curling around your face in the reflection—and then, a shadow behind you. Moving slowly, shaped like a man. 

Somehow you know it's Arthur, even before he picks the lock on your door instead of knocking. He just stands there, looking down at you as moonlight spills into the small room, your face illuminated by the glowing orange dot that is the end of your cigarette. 

"Whatchu doin' here, Mr. Callahan?" you sigh and put out the cigarette in a tin cup on the windowsill behind you. 

"Told ya to stop callin' me that when it's just us two."

You smile and make a circle in the air with your finger. 

"The walls too, have ears, good deputy."

Arthur sighs and leans against the rickety doorframe, grabbing his gun-belt in his usual manner. His hair is a bit messy when he pulls down his hat and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his striped shirt. 

"Haven't seen you in two days. I came to check on ya, thought you was sick," he steps closer, puts his hat back on. His gaze lingers on your disheveled form, your bare neck and shoulders and the thin chemise that barely leaves anything to the imagination over your breasts. You doesn’t care. Not when the memory of him between your legs is still so vivid in your mind. You know he’s not here for that. But that doesn’t stop you from noticing the faint rosy tint that spreads over his sun-kissed cheeks, even in the weak, pale moonlight.

"No, I'm just miserable," you groan and stand up, stretching your arms above your head. You tossed and turned the whole evening, restless and angry. There’s no point in pretendin’ to rest. 

"What, can't get that pretty lost girl act of yours ready?" he puts a hand to his waist, playing with the end of his gun-belt with a thumb. A few shiny cartridges are missing from it. 

"It's the goddamn heat. I haven't seen rain since May," you step beside him and rummage through the small commode he’s leaning on, and you pull out a skirt and a blouse to put on. You might as well go and do something useful now. Maybe ride out early and take the goods to Emerald Ranch. Maybe you knock on Clarence’s window until he gets so annoyed be buys your goods. Or you convince Arthur to share a drink with you. 

"Well, you just missed a real nice brawl with them Lemoyne raiders,” he catches glimpses you while you dress, but he looks away, tryin’ to act like a gentleman. Most of the time he is, you realize, besides from that one time he held a gun to your back. “The look on their faces when I pulled out the sheriff star… Put them behind bars, the goddamn bastards,” he laughs and you finish buttoning up your blouse, feeling the sweat already pearling on the small of your back. This damned town and its damned summers. 

"I'm glad at least you're having fun," you look up at him and your eyes meet for a second, until he turns his head in such a way that the brim of his hat masks his gaze. It’s too late now. You already noticed the puffy red skin that swelled under his left brow, a bruise you’re sure is gonna blacken til’ morning. "Gave you a real nasty blackeye though."

Arthur huffs, like a mustang caught during his half-hearted escape. 

“So, little Miss,” he straightens his spine and now looks you dead in the eye. You’re close enough now that you can see a small smear of blood on his jaw, caked into his beard, but he misses no teeth and that’s good. “Will ya tell me why you’re leavin’ me hangin’?”

“What do ya mean?”

“Are ya settin’ me up, birdie? Do I have to remind ya your place?” 

You know it’s all talk. He could’ve shot you and robbed your home blind. He picked the lock of your door anyway. But it’s the game he’s after, the one you’re always willing to take part in. 

You know he wants the money. The money you don’t have yet.

"I don't have the money," you blurt out, but you regret it almost immediately when his hand flies to his side. It’s more like a warning, but a few days back you saw how Arthur plucked a bird from the night sky with a single shot fired from hip. "I—I have your share, so don't worry, I just can't sell these to that chicken Clarence McMiller. He says folks are gettin' suspicious,” you step back towards your bed and pull out a chest where you stored all the stolen goods, neatly arranged by what kind they are: silver, gold, pearls, platinum, bone. They glint like flowing water of a river as night falls. 

"An' what he gonna do? Call the law on ya?" Arthur scoffs. Now it sounds a bit silly, that you think about it a bit more. Clarence would call the law and the only man that comes would be Arthur. He would play an all high-and-mighty, shining brass-star, menacing righteous eyes and words of justice-kinda feller and you would cower under his gaze and Clarence would smile like the goddamn bastard he is. And later, when the sun dipped low Arthur would take you to that old battlefield and he would have you pressed flush against him and the stone wall of that church-ruin while the wind would make the bell sing above your head. 

You shake your head and close the chest back. 

"Maybe?"

Arthur lays a palm on your shoulder and looks down at you. He’s not angry. 

"I thought you was a smart woman," he gives you one of those rare smiles of his and gestures towards the door of your cabin. You follow him. "So this is why ya didn't show up at the church?"

"Yeah,” you nod while you pick up your boots from beside the steps that lead to your home. Arthur’s already outside, fishing out a cigarette from his pocket and putting it between his lips. He lets it just dangle there while he asks,

"You was afraid, ain't ya?"

You was. A little. He looks real menacing when he wants to, and you’ve had your fair share of bad men in your life, so you didn’t want to make things worse and make him angry at you. 

"I—"

"Don't worry, little Miss. We're business partners,” he lights his cigarette with a match he struck against the sole of one boot. His spurs jingle as he makes his way towards the post where his horse is hitched. “I ain't gonna kill ya. Or not just yet."

"Well, that's reassuring.” 

Arthur just laughs at that and checks the girth of his saddle with one hand, then the straps on the holster that keeps his rifle always at hand, and then puts his cigarette back between his lips. 

"Were you drinkin'?" you ask when he starts to hum a little tune, something so uncharacteristic of the man you get to know until now. He’s strangely at ease tonight, forgiving in the stillness of the night. 

"Just a lil'." 

He unties the bridle of his mare and pulls himself onto her back, looking down at you with that same lawman-poster-boy look that you always thought he could be perfect for. 

"So, care for a ride, little bird?"

Now? With you? Where? You have a lot of questions, but the only one escaping your lips is the most stupid one. Of course.

"What?"

Arthur chuckles. He finishes his cigarette and flicks it into a patch of mud in front of another small cabin nearby. He reaches his hand out to you and gestures for you with his fingers to come closer.

"Ya know how to ride?”

You nod and grasp his hand. 

He lets you put your leg into the stirrup and helps you to swing your other one over the horse’s neck. You sit in front of him in the saddle and he cages you in with his arms as he clicks his tongue and urges his mare into a gentle trot. 

“So, where to, Madam?” you feel his voice rumbling against your back inside his chest, broad and warm and solid, his breath soft against the back of your head, the top of your nape. Christ, what you’ve gotten yourself into?

"Just take me somewhere cold." 

You leave the caravan behind, the little shop of Clarence McMiller and the large oak tree the Grays usually use for public hangings. The dark sky stretches long and wide above you, full of glinting stars and snow-capped mountains in the distance. Night-bugs buzz away beside you, make the horse under you flick her tail furiously. Arthur murmurs sweet words to her to stay calm and you think you’ve never been at peace before in your whole life. 

"Can't promise anythin', but I have a nice place in mind," Arthur finally says to you, and it takes a few seconds for you to realize he’s answering your earlier request. 

It’s already better—the cool wind, the horse’s rhythmic sway under you, Arthur’s calm breaths pressing into your back. You could sleep, just like this. Memories from a long time ago swim up inside your chest, like treasure from a lagoon’s bottom, faded and broken but still rich in detail. The smell of the mountain air up north, the way you used to ride along the narrow trails of the Grizzlies, the wild horses up there that your father tamed. 

Not this stuffy heat, not this town of the ugly and the rich and moonshine and foolery.

"My poor Ginger died last year in colic,” you murmur and Arthur listens, letting the reins lay loose around the horse’s neck. He barely has to hold it. “I'm stuck here since then. She was a real sweet mare.” There’s a sigh and it comes from you. Ginger was a real nice horse. A pretty chestnut mare with a red mane and a white star up on her forehead. "I don’t have the money for a new horse."

Arthur just hums at that. "But you dance around that saloon since a year then."

"Yeah… I guess it's just complicated."

That is something you don’t think you can talk about with him just yet. 

"Do ya have a debt or somethin'?"

You shake your head. Not really. It’s not a debt if you never asked nothin’ for you in the first place. The only loan you got was harsh words and merciless fists. 

He leaves you alone with his questions and you’re grateful for that. 

You just can’t wrap your head around how a lawless bandit is more kind than most of the folk you’ve met in your life. Because it’s jus like he said—you’re business partners, and he treats you fairly. 

The road narrows into a trail as you take a turn somewhere in the heart of Scarlett Meadows, and soon trees envelop you from above. It’s already so much colder here, even though the air is thick with water, the shadows are long and the damp ground splatters into cool flecks of mud on the bare skin of your knee, where your skirt is rucked up as the horse trots along. She nickers happily. Somewhere, deeper in the forest a stream gurgles with fresh water.

Only the moon lights your way, and in the darkness you sink deeper into the cradle of Arthur’s body.

He doesn’t protest. 

He just grabs the reins with one hand and wraps the other around you middle. There’s nothin’ more to what you’re doing, but the closeness is nice. You trade breath for breath, when you chest hollows, his expands. Your spine to his sternum and sweat between. His stubble close to your neck. His hips swaying, and yours too. Nothin’ more. Nothin’, until you want it to be more. 

But it’s gone before it can bloom. 

The mare slows to a halt and Arthur sighs into your hair. 

You’ve arrived at a small pool that bubbles into a waterfall in one end, the birthplace of the same stream you’ve followed since you entered the forest. The moon ripples into distorted ribbons in the water’s reflection, a lake of silver and ink. Fireflies and moths and dragonflies buzz around, the little stars of the forest. You’re already in a dream world.

“We’re here,” Arthur murmurs and you almost shiver from the rumbling of his voice. You feel him shift behind you, and then the warmth of him disappears as he dismounts. 

He doesn’t go far though, he looks up at you and extends a hand towards your thigh, gesturing for you to follow. His hand wraps around your wrist and he holds you steady until you stand on your own two feet. 

“How do you know of this place?” you walk beside him towards the steep edge of the lake while he leads the mare with one hand. She huffs and nips on Arthur’s shirt collar, nagging him for a treat. 

“I don’t have anythin’ on me, girl,” he pats the horse’s neck and stops to take off her bridle. At least she can graze in peace for a while. “Here you go… So, what did ya say, birdie?”

“When did you find this place?”

Arthur stops at a nice, flat boulder and takes off the bridle and his boots while he answers. “I went fishin’ with a friend of mine. He knows all them hidden gems of water ‘round here.” He arranges his boots in the grass beside the big rock and sits down onto it, looking back at you with an arched brow. “Ya gonna jus’ stand there?”

So this is how you end up in only your chemise with your feet dipped into the lake’s cool water while Arthur works open the top three buttons on his shirt. 

“So, whatchu thinkin’, where should we sell all those stuff?” You notice how his gaze lingers on your bare shoulder as he speaks. “I know a feller at Emerald Ranch but he’s… Well I guess we have some bad blood between us.”

“What, you robbed him?”

Arthur gives you a small, almost shy smile, like he’s thinkin’ about a nice memory. But it warps into a smirk, a dangerous one, and his eyes glint cold when your gazes meet. Something wild and clawing flutters alive in your chest. A blue moth, carving it’s way out. 

“Yeah, and then some. But I heard he’s okay now. Got a real nasty scar though,” he mumbles the last sentence and you gasp. 

“Ya really are a great piece of work, Mr. Callahan!”

“Yeah, well, that’s no concern of yours. I ain’t gonna hurt you, little bird,” he pats the back of your hand that lays still between you on the cool surface of the boulder. You flinch a little. He pulls back and you already regret the reaction. You can’t help it. Heat and sex, you can tolerate. Enjoy. But softer gestures, something as basic as a tap on your shoulder—it’s different. You always wait for the next touch. Something not as gentle. A slap, a fist, a strike. “Sorry.”

“No, I—” you bite back the words. It’s so much easier when he takes the reins and has you pressed tight against him, has his hand between your thighs, his lips on your throat. It’s so much easier when lust clouds your mind. Softness, it’s—It’s scary.  

“Can ya swim?” he asks a few seconds later, trying to brush off your reaction. You’re grateful for it. 

“‘Course I can,” you nod, pulling your hands into your lap and drawing a circle with one foot in the water. You watch the ripples it creates, how they collide with Arthur's ankle beside you. 

Arthur's chuckle makes you look up at him and there's mischief glinting in those sea eyes of his. 

“Great, then fly little birdie!” he grins and you’re too slow to stop him. He curls an arm around you—strong as a horse—and he pushes you into the lake. 

You do fly a little, a heartbeat of free fall, and you sink under the ink and silver, into the dark pool of coldness. You sink and the air bubbles around you, but you’re not panicking. After days of heat, there’s finally a release. 

You swim up and the world rights around you. Water is everywhere—your ears, your eyes, your mouth, but you smile when you spot Arthur dumping his hat and gun-belt, ready to jump at the edge of the boulder you was sitting on. 

“Ya okay?” he asks and you hastily nod and then lay back on the water, let it support your weight. You float, like a corpse dumped into a river, but you breathe, slow, steady, just like you learnt all those years ago back home. You weigh nothin’. You’re not more than a petal the wind swept over the lake. 

Arthur watches you in awe. You know he jumped in, from the gentle waves that rock you away, and then the bigger ones that he creates with broad strokes of his arms. He swims beside you, touches a palm to the middle of you back under the water. 

“You told me you can swim, not that you float,” he chuckles and you open your eyes, gaze up at him with the water still sitting in the nooks of your face. 

“You didn’t ask,” you return the smile and swim away on your back while Arthur tails you like a stray dog that wants you as his new home. 

When you stop he’s right beside you, peering into your gaze with his hair all around his face, beard dripping, eyes as clear as the water under you. The bruise around his eye darkened, and it makes his face look almost cruel, even though he looks down at you like you’re the reflection of the disappearing moon and the stars that go to sleep. 

“Thank you for bringin’ me here,” you murmur and he nods, eyes softening, his mouth opening on words he doesn’t say in the end. 

You watch him for a moment, in this vulnerable state, with his palm warm on the dip in your spine again, like he can’t believe that you won’t submerge. Like he doesn’t want you to. A safety measure. Something gets ripped open in your lungs until a meadow spurts out. 

The sky turns into the colors of purpled smoke, the first sign of the morning, and somewhere deep in the forest an oriole starts to sing. One hell of a love-song. And one hell of a man beside you. Above on one of the the overhanging elderberry branches a pair of rainbow-blue dragonflies mate. A wheel of lovers.

A strand of hair fall into Arthur’s eyes.

“Sure,” he finally manages to say, voice low, but missing that edge he uses when he threatens someone. 

You sink back into the water until your feet touch the soft floor of the lake. You turn towards him, aware of the chemise sticking to your skin, translucent at most places, but Arthur is non the better. His shirt is soaked, buttoned open almost to his stomach, and the hair on his chest glints wet. Rivulets of water drip down the hollow of his throat from his hair, smearing some blood there too, a fleck you didn’t notice earlier. 

Maybe it’s the wee hours of the morning doing this to you—the moon dipping down while the sun hasn’t risen, a blessed hour shielded from their watchful gaze. Only a few stars, only two seafoam-eyes are the witnesses of your actions. 

So you reach forward and touch a palm to Arthur’s chest. He flinches just like you did before, not used to the touch, to the softness of it. There’s a question in his gaze, in his hand that now curls around the arch of your hip and squeezes. You don’t tremble. You just touch and you get touched by him, his palm skimming your belly, then the underside of one breast. He’s close now—you stepped forward or he did, or something otherworldly force pulled you together like a body mends a wound. Slowly, with time, with something new, something raw as the seal of naked flesh. 

His thumb draws a circle around one nipple, a spot of fire, and then many more. Your toes curl into the mud. 

You touch his neck, wash away the blood and the tip of your finger turns a muddy pink with it. Arthur lets out a sound—a growl or a groan, or something more akin to what a wounded animal makes. You think you grow wet between the thighs. 

He leans in, blackened eye already closed from the swelling, and the other hidden by golden brown lashes. There’s no kiss. Just quiet observation, silent touches, a forest of life to surround the quiet in your chest. 

“Little bird—” he whispers, but the rest of it hitches in his throat. 

A noise, hoofbeats of a trotting horse break you apart. 

“Shit.”

Arthur glances at his mare who grazes peacefully not too far away, and the illusion of peace is shattered. You barely have time to swim back to shore and throw on your clothes before a man rides close, dressed up in an olive jacket and checkered pants with a hat hooked full of lures. There’s a fishing rod strapped on his saddle and he hums a quiet tune as he slows his horse to a halt. 

He eyes you for a second, the disheveled look of your hair and the wrongly buttoned up blouse, and then he looks at Arthur who’s drenched completely, eyes burning with a desire to kill. 

“Are ya alright, Miss?” the feller asks you, and you can’t find your words for a second. 

“Yes,” you mumble, but Arthur gives you a helping hand. 

“I was ridin’ by when I heard screamin’,” he explains as he puts his gun-belt back on. “The lady here was drownin’.” 

The stranger raises up an eyebrow while he looks at you.

“Mr. McMiller here saved my life,” you nod and hug your hands around yourself. 

“And what was a fine lady like ya doin’ out at the lake when even the fishes sleep?” asks the fisherman. 

You feel sooner than hear the rumble that erupts from Arthur’s throat. He has his gun cocked in a second, barrel aimed at the stranger’s heart. The man gasps, puts up his hands in surrender.

“That was one too many questions, friend,” he snarls, the tenderness long gone and the outlaw back in place. “Git down from that horse, and don’t make me repeat myself. I don’t want to spatter your brains in front of the lady.”

The man does as he’s told. 

“Good. Now you’re gonna wait at that rock while we leave,” Arthur gestures towards another large boulder, a bit away from you and the horse. “Don’t bother goin’ to the law, I’m gonna know about it.” 

Arthur picks up his hat and puts it on his still dripping hair, and then pulls the bridle of his horse over one shoulder, all the while keeping the feller still in the sight of his six-shooter.

“Bring the gentleman’s horse, sweetheart,” he says to you, and waits until you mount up. “Now Mister, you are very kind. Giftin’ horses to ladies speaks of great chivalry.”

The fisherman just scoffs, defeated. 

You ride away when the sky turns golden. Warmth flutters restlessly inside your belly as you pat the liver chestnut stallion on the neck and urge him towards home. Arthur catches up to you quick, riding without a bridle until you’re out of sight and off the main roads. Rhodes glows red in the distance, bathed in early morning light.

“So, whatchu gonna call him?” Arthur looks at you and slides off his horse to put the bridle back on to not raise suspicion in the waking town. 

“He’s mine?” you sound surprised, and it’s because you are. Is this a gift? 

“‘Course. Next time you can show me your riding skills and then we can go and sell your goods someplace nice.” 

You can’t help but smile at the implication. Christ, this whole thing—this is the first time since years that you’re feeling this much alive. 

“Whiskey,” you decide. Whiskey, after that night in the Parlour House. Whiskey, after honey-brown locks. 

"That's a real good name," Arthur pulls himself back up and nods towards Rhodes.

[bastart13]

I’ve had a lot of fun recently coming with with female mercenary characters for TF2. I really liked where the concept art was going with making them all individual characters rather than simply “if the characters were women”

The design style is fantastic for distinct simplicity so I tried limiting myself to basic colours and shapes to make these

and I’m pretty confident they pass the silhouette test!

Character names/bios under the cut!

Heavy

Name: Marie Jarrett

Age: Mid 30s-40s

Height: 6’5

Nationality: American (Hawai’i)

Bio: Raised in Hawai’i, growing up she developed more and more drastic measures to fend off the tourists swarming her home. Land mines, electric gates, guard dogs, none could stop them for long until she picked up her trusty minigun to send her message. But even still, she hears the click of cameras in the night.

Eventually, she left her home to explore the world. Enthralled with the image of seeing different wonders across different countries, she’s always disappointed. She’s travelled every continent and still finds nothing that lives up to her expectations. No place, no person. She’s outgoing and open to new experiences, only she usually hates them.

Mercenary life is a great opportunity to earn money, see sights, meet new people and kill them after they don’t meet your expectations. She hates New Mexico and takes every opportunity to destroy the buildings and insult her employer’s tastes. She finds some people she tolerates within the mercenaries as she hasn’t yet visited where they live. However much she hides it, she has a deep, instinctual fear of the Engineer.

  Soldier

Name: Linda Smith

Age: Early 40s

Height: 5’10

Nationality: Canadian

Bio: Canada’s perfect woman… or so she claims. The star of war propaganda posters and clearly decided for the role because of her great tactical assets. She’s there to motivate people into the fight. To spread the glory of Canada and inspire her allies. She believes she has higher orders than anyone else she’s working for (ignoring the fact she hasn’t heard from them for a good few years) and is determined to follow them to the letter. She may have lost the letter but she remembers it good enough.

She represents the ideals of Canada: polite, friendly, apologetic, and pacifistic. None of these are contradicted by how she throws around rockets. That’s not what Canada means. She’s superior to everyone around her and graciously educates them on how to improve through example. She loves her French and British allies and will kindly tell the Americans how to be better.

She’s motivating and actually fairly competent, it’s just that competency might be misdirected. She’s damn good at rocket jumping, shooting her shotgun, and supporting her team, it’s just that you really need to get it in her head when she’s meant to be doing it.

Scout

Name: Patricia “Pat” Herald

Age: 50s-60s

Height: 5’4

Nationality: English

Bio: In her years, Patricia has learnt fear… and she’s learnt to laugh in its face. She wakes up at the crack of dawn, ready to leave at the drop of a hat, boots polished and laced the night before. Her years have taught her that with a gun and Jeremy by her side, she can survive!

The postal route of Appleby-in-Westmorland.

She’s been chased by geese, dogs, cows, elderly ladies, and when her postal route had her delivering post during the war, she developed a taste for blood. Nothing will stop her from delivering her post on time. Every day before 6am, every postbox will have their letters and parcels. One chucked across barbed wire, another house jumped over a river, another house miles into the country with dogs on her heels, she WILL get there and she’ll get there FAST.

But after a couple of decades, she needs a change of scenery, and the Gravels wars are just the holiday she’s needed. With her trusty black and white cat by her side (ignoring the yowling and scratches) she reckons it’ll be great time to enjoy herself.

Quotes: “Oh, hello, Human Jeremy.”

“Bloody fucking Ethel! Building her house out in the country… surrounded by bloody hills and rivers!”

Pyro

Name: Nikephoros Papadopoulos

Age: Late 20s

Height: 5’11

Nationality: Greek

Bio: Survival of the fittest. Nature gives and nature taketh away. If you’re not prepared for that, well, Pyro is more than happy to teach you the lesson. They embody the old values of the Greek gods: f*ck or fire. She indulges her every whim and unfortunately for the people around her it often involves arson.

One year for the Olympic games, she was given the noble title of torchbearer. On complete coincidence, the Olympics shifted to primarily water sports. Underwater sprints became the hot new trend!

She’s merry and chatty, never missing the opportunity to talk to other people about herself and her world view. She can’t wait to spread her gospel to help other people improve themselves (though she always gets a laugh out of those who go out screaming in the flames). She can’t help it if she has a sadistic side.

Engineer

Name: Mikawo Kojima

Age: Early 20s

Height: 5’0

Nationality: Japanese

Bio: Japan’s early-rising industrial revolutions in technology are best exemplified in Mikawo, a young upstart determined to rise to the top, learning everything she can and building the best of the best. Unfortunately, she’s never been the most creative but when you happen upon other people’s blueprints and happen to construct them first, what does it matter who came up with the “concept”?

At first, she appears to be every bit the quiet and demure young woman people expect, only when silk hides steel, that steel is a massive automatic sentry gun. She’s motivated by a distinct contempt for the people who get in her way. Especially those who try to be better than her. She enjoys the flexibility of English, especially the cusses, and she has no reservations about swearing up a storm, even if she still refuses to give a straight rejection, preferring instead to give a small “I’ll think about it.”

Quotes: “This GUN is fair use on your head!”

Demo

Name: Qingzhao Zeng

Age: Late 40s

Height: 5’3

Nationality: Chinese

Bio: The Zeng family has a long-standing family trade in demolitions and explosives, traced down the line all the way to the Song dynasty. Luckily, Qingzhao has sisters so, you know, it’s not all that important. She doesn’t even have to stop smoking and drinking. She hasn’t blown herself up (that much) so clearly, it’s working. Precision is for other people to worry about. She’s apathetic to a T, having seen everything. Measurements come from the heart. A pinch of gunpowder there, a splash of paint there.

Her family has a deep-seated rivalry with the DeGroots. Long ago in ancient China, a Zeng matriarch woke up in a cold sweat, a message from the stars to let them know of their Scottish rivals. Due to being a continent away from each other, the families have actually met each other only a handful of times, but the hatred needs to be kept up because, what if?

Turns out, Qingzhao has met Tavish even before finding employment under the Mann brothers. One drunken night, the two of them had a short, whirlwind friendship, sharing secrets and declaring each other to be their best friends. Luckily for them, they both forgot the night, merrily hating each other as tradition dictates. However, headaches and flashes of this terrible night haunt them both. Could they really get over centuries of hate and become friends?

Absolutely not.

Sniper

Name: Ansa Aaltonen

Age: 27

Height: 6’2

Nationality: Finnish

Bio: Snow. Sugar. Cocaine.  Her life is run by many white powders. Ansa is a professional sniper, with a sharp eye and a steady hand… when she isn’t also high as a kite, lost in the snowy wilderness of Finland and screeching to the sky. When you’re up in the dark and cold, you need something to give you a little pep in your step. It just so happens Ansa liked having a bit more pep than most.

She’s there for a THRILL. There’s nothing better to get your heart pumping at 200 beats per second than a good headshot, embracing the chill, and a hit of sugar. She no longer feels the cold or heat or even pain, shrugging it off until she collapses. It just makes her feel alive. She’s efficient, fast, and determined to get her kicks.

She has an unusual taste, living off fermented fish and tree bark. To most people around the Finnish wilderness, she’s nothing more than an urban legend, but she’s very real and she’s looking for some excitement, happily found in employment in the Gravel wars.

Spy

Name: Yvonne Pleshette [Real name N/A]

Age: 30s

Height: 5’8

Nationality: American (California)

Bio: The silver screen calls to his woman and she’s happy to answer. She trains herself to act in every possible role she can, having a wide range of accents, body languages, and backstories. To truly test herself, she gave up her identity long ago. Lately she’s been going by the name “Yvonne.”

The world of Hollywood is cutthroat and full of backstabbers so she learnt to cut throats and stab backs. While some people tell her the terms are metaphorical, nothing else has given her more roles. Living the mercenary life is simply gathering research for her roles (and earning some much-needed money in the process).

She presents herself as a classic film star, despite being a minor name at best, mostly because she’s always changing it. She has high standards but a cheapskate personality. She’s a bit of a bitch, happily criticising others, especially if they’re working with her. What can she say? She’s a diva.

[Slutshames other spy]

Quotes: “Ugh, actors these days, they know nothing about getting into character. They still have names.”

“’AHHHHH—’ Wait, no. Once more from the top. Scream in agony.”

Medic

Name: Susan Monks

Age: 30-40s

Height: 5’7

Nationality: American (New Jersey)

Bio: The American Healthcare system. Is there a more glorious sight? The exploitation of pain. The money. The debt. The fear it strikes into the entire population it’s designed to help. To Susan, there’s nothing better. She squeezes every last drop from the people she helps, working on a purely transactional lifestyle. She’ll never help someone unless she has all of their insurance information and the payment secure in her bank, and god forbid she ever accept help. It’s not like she can afford her own prices.

She’s very self-aware of her own corruption and proud of it, though she refuses to be exploited in the same way, suspicious of anything “free” but also doing her best not to pay for anything.

That said, she doesn’t much care for how good a job she does. In her eyes, asking for surgery is one thing. Asking for successful surgery is another. She has a variety of skills in both cosmetic and military medicine. She just wishes the license board would stop sending her “malpractice” letters. Ugh, stick to your own business. “Disappearing” all their messengers is becoming a pain.

Quotes: “Why get someone else to do something for you when you can scrounge a way to do it yourself?”

[softkuna]

Toji Fushiguro || Toy || Fic

The Sukuna one had me like ✨✨✨ Now I must ask, can you- a toji x fem reader and him seeing Gojo eyeing up what's his and her responding to it and then toji being like oh hell no and basically railing her as punishment (degrading kink please it makes me jello) you don't have to write it if your not comfortable btw take your time and stay safe.

Content   ║ Toji Fushiguro x Fem Insert. Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind.  Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

Count      ║ 1,311 words.

Consider ║ NSFW. Degradation Kink. Objectification. Female Insert (she/her). Alcohol. Grammar issues. Basic degeneracy.

Creator    ║ So this is the first NSFW thing I have done like this ;v;. I’m not sure if this hit the mark for ya Anon, but hopefully it’ll do until I can get some more practice. It took a little while since I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing. Honestly this just feels subpar gomen. Enjoy jealous Toji, though -finger guns-.

The club was barely lit with black light and neon strewn about the solid concrete walls in seemingly random intervals. A particularly bright hot pink one cast across her collarbone, dowsing the tops of her breasts deliciously in contrast to the black latex dress. As much as Toji would like to shove her against that very wall, she had a job to do. For him. And he regretted it.

  She was pushing her luck when she approached the table with a certain sway to her hips. Gojou peered around the tinted sunglasses, brow piqued in interest. She flashed a smile, smoothly setting a large bottle of some random high percentage alcohol onto the table. Sliding into the booth next to Satoru, the woman leaned a hand on his leg, the other moving to playfully snap the strap of a birthday hat under his chin, “I hear it’s someone’s birthday?”

  His head tilted up along with the corners of his lips, “Guilty as charged. Are you my present, doll? Always heard the hostesses here were the best,” His voice purred against the thrum of the bass. She tucked hair behind her ear, eyes flickering back to the ravenette with a dangerous composition. The corner of her mouth twitched up at the obvious frustration resonating in the man. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t even dream of it if he wanted any semblance of information on this guy. It was the perfect opportunity to test a theory. Toji was the jealous type.

  Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind.  Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

  He slammed down a shot, the burn at the back of his throat accompanying the burn of his own gaze. She wasn’t anything to him aside from an in. Yet somehow, the not-so-shaman made it a point to speak with her at least once a week, which usually lead into fucking her like a play thing. The lay was just as good as the information she could pry out of loose mouths. Immaculate. This go around, he needed information on someone in particular. Someone who just so happened to be here with a group. Someone who decided it would be a good idea to get a little handsy with his toy.

  “Y’know,” Satoru murmured, “’s pretty sad to be alone in bed for my birthday.” Chilled pads of his fingers rested at the back of her neck. His gaze was hungry and she was a full course meal. Just his type. Perfect shape, perfect charm, perfect headrush. Her hand cupped his ear, whispering something his buzzing mind couldn’t fully piece together against the dense music.  

  She kept up the sweet act despite not getting a lick of information. The only dirt she dug up was that he could finish half a handle before getting buzzed. By the end of the night, Gojou’s hands squeezed at her thigh like he did her last string of patience.  

  The last thing Toji saw was the exchange of cards.

  -

  As the black-clad hostess passed by Toji, her hand trailed along the muscles of his chest, stiletto nails pressing just slightly into him. He followed close behind until they got to their regular spot. A private room tucked into the corner of the club. Commonly used for rich men thirsting to empty their wallets on a good lap dance. It was sound proofed, dimly lit, and somehow hot pink velvet was a prime design choice to set a steamy mood.

  She crossed her arms, gaze hard as the door shut, “So, I’ve got bad new. He didn’t let a word slip-“ The sentence stopped as soon as it began.

  “So doll’s got a sense of humor, huh?” His voice held an edge to match the snide smirk flashing over pointed canines. She knew exactly what was up and oh was it a dangerously delectable sight. One that made her cunt throb on nothing but adrenaline. The crease of his brow, the way his lips set into that hairpin curl, the tensing of each thick muscle along his arm – all of it leaving a sense of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach. Theory confirmed. He took a step closer; she didn’t shrink away. A lost challenge if he’d say so himself.

  A large calloused hand shoved her onto cushions of the booth, catching her open mouth in his own with a bruising force. The man wasted no time with his prodding tongue, tasting the sweetness of peppermint and lapping it up while fending off her own slick muscle.  A hand snaked into the roots of her perfectly done hair, white-knuckling just at the base of the skull. With a sharp yank, her head was yanked back, allowing break for air. Smug and breathless, she chimed, “Jealous?”

  Toji blew air out in a single blackened laugh, “I’m not one to share my toys.” Teeth connected to her lips, rolling the flesh then moving to her throat. Purple marked his territory trailing down. The heat of his breath tickled the space directly next to her ear, “Now, you’re going to beg for me to forgive you. Make myself clear, slut?” Toji’s grip on her tightened, “Or is doll better for something getting used?” A rough tug to the back of her hair triggered a low moan from her heaving chest. After so many sessions, she knew he didn’t really want an answer. He wanted a reason go harder.  

  The hand once in her hair now gripped her jaw, keeping her gaze on him, “Answer me, toy. Or do I need to pull a string to make that cock-obsessed mouth move?” On que, free digits wrapped around the gusset of her thong, second knuckle just grazing the entrance of her heat before he pulled the sodden fabric taught, letting it snap back to place. The impact triggered another empty clench and gasp. Her hips writhed, a sappy pout puffing the bitten lips. More.

  Toji maintained her heavy-lidded stare as he brought the knuckle to his lips. He watched as her own parted when his tongue swept up the sweetness collected at the joint. The way her hips rose to match the zipper’s height, the lock of her teeth on her finger, the desperation in her eyes – all of it made his stiffened cock twitch against her adorably hopeless grinding, “Looks like my toy is broken. Guess I’ll just fuck the apology out of it then.”

  A wicked grin whipped onto his handsome face. Her mouth opened in rebuttal, only to get interrupted, “This is to teach a lesson, toy. What did you do to deserve the prep?” The gravel in his tone grew slightly dark, “Couldn’t even get the dirt I paid for.” His long digits did work past the gusset, slipping over her entrance, gathering the arousal, “Look how wet you already are for me.” A heated coil pressed in her at the words. She knew what was coming now and every inch of her craved it.

  In what seemed to be a single motion, jeans and boxers were torn down. Her dress was hiked up with a satisfying peel, thong quite literally ripped off and thrown to the ground before she was flipped so that her back was pressed against his chest. Sturdy, veined arms wrapped at the backs of her thighs and under her knees. Truly, she was a doll for him to pleasure himself on and he made it a point to do so.

  Toji lowered her so that the thick tip of his length pressed against her heart-beating heart. Her walls fluttered around him as he slid in. “For a broken toy, you’re pretty damn tight for me - ready to be played with. Get used- fuck.” Amusement broke through as she bit back a breathless sigh. His cock filled her easily, slick sliding down his shaft and pooling at the base. As he fully sheathed himself, he craned his neck forward, lips pressing at the shell of her ear, “Now, I want to hear you beg, bitch.” With that, the man snaked back and up, setting a relentless pace from the beginning. The sound of skin slamming into wettened skin filling the room along with the aroma of arousal.

  She was stubborn. He was tireless. They’d both cum before the apology even had a chance to.

[catharrington]

Another part of 1950’s cat boy house husband Steve and milk man Billy. We are getting very hurt right here but next part will be the comfort!! I promise!! Tagging @withoneheadlight because I believe you asked in a previous part, thanks so much for your kind tags🖤🖤, and if anyone else would like to be tagged let meow know. 😽

Part 3: dream a little dream of me

That morning, Steve’s tongue didn’t taste like pineapple juice. Even though the cake came out delightfully, and their supper was cooked expertly between it being baked. Steve had sat at that table, their table, and tried to close his eyes and picture something sweet. Something unreachable, he found out.

Now his mouth tasted like cigarettes smoke and copper. And around him the only sounds were also metallic as he pounded away at his typewriter. Writing out a sentence so the stabbing sharpness of each key rang out into the early morning silence. Then, proceeding to the next sentence, he pushed across the metal tray and it sounded like the firing of a gun.

But Steve simply lifted his cigarette from its glass tray beside the machine, took a long breath before continuing to it. The loudness of the typewriter isn’t what makes him flinch in this house.

Steve doesn’t realize it’s been hours until he hears a calling at his door. “Milk delivery!” And that voice seems to finally awaken him this morning.

Steve turns in his small writing desk’s chair towards the living room door. He shivers from the way that voice is too far away. So silent, compared to how loud he wants that voice whispered in his ear.

He knows he cannot, he should just wait for the milk to be left at the door like any other delivery is made to any other house. But as long as Steve can remember, he’s been there to greet Billy. To linger over Billy as long as he could. Even his first morning in the house, brand new and newly married, Steve waited outside for Billy.

Their first meeting felt ages ago, another time altogether. Early morning in early summer where the water clings to the grass as long as it can in the heat, and where even birds are slow to awaken because of the merciless sun.

Steve had stood out on the porch blushing from the tip of his ears to the end of his tail at Billy’s slaked-jawed awe. At the way he tipped his hat towards Steve for the very first time because, “we don’t see much cat folk around here, apologies for being so… captured.”

And Steve loved to write, he loved to read and he ate at words like mice. That word, that first meeting: captured. Was the perfect one Billy could have used.

Steve’s felt captured ever since. And in every sense of the word.

Now he felt trapped. Listening to Billy’s voice outside the door. He felt trapped in the smoke filled living room of their house, his husband’s house. The only light at all being the sunlight that’s streaming right from where Billy is.

Steve smoked down his cigarette to the very butt of it. Pulling so the lit cherry nearly burnt at his fingers. Then he snubbed the trash into the glass ashtray fiercely, his claws clicking against it.

He turned tiredly towards the living room door. Clutching the bamboo back of his narrow desk chair like a life line. He used it to push himself up and away from his writing. Pushed himself towards the living room door.

And he must have wanted to see Billy, at least from the darkness inside looking out, because he had left the wooden door open. Only the creaking, thin screen door of glass and iron design kept them apart.

Steve pressed his body up against the screen door. And looked out to where Billy was still lingering at his porch steps.

“Mr. Smith?” He called again.

Steve dragged his nails down the iron stripes of his door in frustration. “How many times, Billy, must I remind you. It’s Steve. Please call me Steve.”

Billy didn’t reply, he swallowed thickly anything he was going to reply at all. Clutching to the holder of milk in his hands. Searching across the porch as if to find a weak spot in the bars of this cage.

“Your milk will spoil out here on the porch. Still hot outside, even in September.” Billy’s voice was shaky and so was his leg as he gingerly lifted one more step upwards.

“Would you rather me take it to you? To the door?” He lifted another foot as he spoke. His boots leaving flakes of mud behind him on the steps.

Steve’s anger and his embarrassment swirled together into a shivering mess. His hands didn’t know if they wanted to rip at the iron or keep it right where it was. His chest was rapidly rising and falling as he tried in vain to keep his breathing normal.

“To the door,” he whispered. “To the door is fine. Leave it and I will collect the milk. Thank you.”

Steve tried to keep his shivering and traitorous hands from acting up by pressing them to his chest. His shirt that he had thrown on in the earliest of the morning was wrinkled and pressed all wrong. It was pastel lavender and mother of pearl buttons and itched where it touched his skin.

He softly pressed his fingers around the base of his neck, where his milky skin was sensitive right above his collar bones, and winced as he forgot of his markings.

Then, a rattling noise, and Steve whipped his head back up. He looked right at Billy who had stepped up to the porch. To the door. And was settling the milk right where Steve requested it.

Billy watched his eyes for as long as he could, as long as it took until those blue eyes wandered downwards to the creamy column of Steve’s neck. They lingered there on the wide irritated markings of red.

They lingered on the ghost shapes of another man’s fingers that ruined Steve’s skin, welts bruised and biting down to the pretty boy’s bones.

Steve gripped at the collar of his half open shirt to hold it together.

But Billy’s eyes were already widened to the size of dinner plates. If the milk wasn’t already set on the porch he might have dropped it. Billy walked ever closer, his hands reaching out towards the screen door.

“What the hell?” Billy hissed. His boots and his breathing and his hands against the iron were so loud, so so loud, it made Steve’s ears lay flat back against his head. “What the hell are those?”

Steve’s been good at keeping it hidden, at keeping the bruises from hands wrapped around his arms under linen shirts. At keeping the desperation and hurt from his big brown eyes if only for a couple minutes every morning.

But today he’s feeling sloppy. He’s feeling used. He’s feeling like he can’t keep this up much longer. And no matter how much he claws or how much he writes no one ever hears him.

“It’s nothing,” he covered up. He pressed the itchy fabric to his hurt throat. He wanted to cry out, to whimper, but bit down on his lip to keep it inside.

“Your-your throat! Does he, your husband, he ain’t— I don’t understand?” Billy stuttered out. His delivery uniform hat bobbing as he glanced up and down nervously.

“My husband?” Steve sneered the word, smearing it around so his fangs ripped from his plush lips. “You believe my husband could do this to me?”

Billy reached out his hand towards the screen door. It collapsed and curled into itself against the iron. His knuckles resting right over where Steve’s standing on the other side. He reached as if he wanted to touch. But he couldn’t though the twisting wall of thorns.

“Tell me he ain’t then,” Billy pleaded. “If he’s a good man, then tell me those ain’t his fingers—,”

Steve couldn’t breath. He couldn’t find the words all of a sudden, anything that came to him was a lie. And Billy was the softness in his life, he was the gentle thing. Him in his all white uniform and his cozy smile even on Summer mornings. Steve couldn’t lie to him, but he’s also selfish enough to want to keep Billy for as long as he can.

“Thank you, for your delivery. Have a pleasant morning, Billy.” Steve muttered to his feet then turned to press his back against the indoor wall. To hide from having to see Billy’s reply.

He could still hear the rushed goodbye, and the noise his boots made stomping off the porch. He could hear the milk truck starting, and he could hear his blood rushing up into his ears from where his heart felt like it was ripping into pieces inside his chest.

[cricketchaology]

the bile of the beast

this fic includes discussion of the symptoms of PTSD, especially as it relates to eliot's past with violence (including allusions to sexual violence). if these topics are triggering for you, please proceed with caution.

READ ON AO3

it's san lorenzo (again, but different than it used to be) , and it's sweeter this time. it's fake blood on sophie's dress and damien's smirk melting off his face, a president's hands on nate's lapel. it's righting a wrong, but it's also a burning warehouse a country or so away, cops called and infiltrating, and they won't find who did it because eliot is a professional, always has been. they'll find a room full of messy corpses, turning in the evening sun, each as nameless as the last. moreau likes his men to be nothing (outside of him).

it's something eliot knows intimately: the way moreau can sink his teeth in so slowly you don't release you are nothing but a chew toy. and it's an odd thought when you are the dog, that your hide is flea-ridden and blank. that you are the soft toy he humps in the yard, not the doberman across the street that bears its teeth behind the screen door of close-cropped control. that, sometimes, you aren't even the weapon. sometimes you are the display: the show dog, heeling at the hand that no longer bears a treat. that your ribs are the home of boot-toes, breaking you down to the red dust you thought you escaped when you took up the mantle of a flag all those years ago.

so he holds the bottleneck. he clinks the right glasses, smiles appropriately in a way he prays reaches his eyes because sophie will notice if it doesn't and he can't. he's not feeling the happiness he knows is supposed to rise in his stomach at revenge because this isn't, the shapes are all pulled too long, too neat. it's moreau, it's messy by nature, it’s bloodied hands and broken chairs and little bits being removed from base-spine with even tweezers, folding on the floor like christ in the tomb, listening the tut-tut-tut of a man who doesn't love, but he loves you , or you think he does. eliot's grip tightens at the notion.

cause he knows moreau. he knows moreau like the back of his hand. knows how many times each knuckle's been busted and finger broken, constellation tracing each freckle. he knows moreau like a typewriter knows the author's touch, pounding away till the letters are worn. he knows moreau, which he means he knows it's not over, which means he can't stop running because he never, ever could, and it's why he's here now, with a team that knows him too much for him to stay. who will act like tomorrow is a new day, a free one. like with the italian off their backs, nothing is hanging over their heads.

tomorrow is day one of post-post moreau. it's not the first time he's escaped, and it won't be the last. it is a fact he knows the team won't understand- not when they got off easy, this time. last time it was by the skin of eliot's teeth, shoulder bullet-lodged and airplanes unnamed as he crossed ocean after ocean just to put enough distance between him and the hammer so that he could avoid being the next nail. he wasn't free then. wasn't free a day after moreau, wasn't even free before, because when moreau wants something, he gets it. and he wanted eliot spencer less then than he wants him now. the thought makes his skin crawl, remembering the heat of the brand as it grew closer to his inner thigh, kissing the hairs near his groin before drawing away. because moreau doesn't even need to lay claim to own you, just has to say he did. just has to release that wolf-grin and hold your collar like its always been his.

eliot's spent years clawing at that loop, the necklace that bites too tight around his skin even when no one else knows. he cooks, and he smiles, but it's always there, always weighing on the nape like a hand, skin pinching. he's spent years scratching and howling, enough that the red ring is more evident than the too-tight collar itself. enough that he knows it doesn't come off. to know even a moreau locked in a hole in san lorenzo is still the one he remembers, even if the shape is different.

so when nate offers up a glass of whiskey, raised high by an unshaking hand, it takes everything in eliot to smile, lift his beer bottle, and cheer.

///

he does not remember much of the first day post-post moreau, which is something that scares him. he's not sure how it passed him by; he remembers waking up in the hotel, turning in sunbeams as they scrape past the window screen. he remembers the panic of nate not answering the door when he knocked, and he remembers slamming his body into it until he saw nate alive and well, but he doesn't remember the conversation that followed. he doesn't remember what comes between the elevator and the airport, or what movie hardison played on the flight, or how many seats were unfilled. they're the kind of lapses that could get him- get all of them, he amends, wondering how he could forget- killed. because what eliot lacks in computer skills or acting ability he makes up for in counting hats, mapping exits. he pays his stay in blood.

except he doesn't now, or he's not supposed to. the thought haunts him the rest of the flight. he's barely conscious when they arrive back in boston, his head swimming between the then and the now, post and post-post. he doesn't even realize they've landed till the seatbelt light flickers off, and his hands go to help sophie carry all the luggage she packed in place of the carryon he didn't need.

because eliot never travels with a suitcase. when he arrives, the clothes will be laid out on the bed that’s been paid off for the next few nights. the most that ever belongs to him are the shoes, but even that is a danger- particulates are easily traced, so the red dirt is disposed of every other week, burying the people he isn't supposed to say he's been. disoriented as he is, he winds up picking up a stranger's briefcase before he realizes it's the weight of paperwork-filled folders and not a sniper rifle nestled intimately inside.

he drops it like the handle burns. the movement is abrupt enough that his elbow nudges nate's side. his furrowed brows say we need to talk.

eliot wants to meet his eyes but can't. instead, he grounds himself, taking enough of the team's bags that the straps start to wear into his skin, pulling him from the nothing that's begun to spread from post to post-post. he's silent on the drive home, oddly unperturbed by the fact that parker insists on driving (something about how airplanes don't feel fast, and she wants to feel fast, and everyone being too tired to argue) . he doesn't so much as grumble as he makes a roundabout the vehicle, jabbing each tire with the tip of his toe. he stares at the license plate for a moment too long, trying to remember why he's in boston before nate shouts something along the lines of "come on, let's get home."

it's raining; something eliot doesn't register till they've arrived at the office and are piling out of the car. his arms are loaded with bags by the time he hears someone say, "we'll worry about the luggage later," which they surely said before he loaded up. by the time he makes it inside, his hair is curling at the ends in a way it never did in the before- cropped too short then for even damien to find much comfort in running fingers through, though he'd do it anyway. petting more than soothing, and the difference was something eliot learned to sense before the hand was even laid down, the way a knee aches before a storm.

the thought must show on his face, or maybe his disheveled appearance is enough to earn the concern coloring his team as they stare at him, dripping in the doorway with their luggage draped across his body all pack-mule-like. he's shivering, though he isn't exactly sure why, by the time they pull the bags from him, ushering him upstairs as the bar staff eyes them no more curiously but perhaps more timidly than usual. the soles of his shoes squeak against the vinyl, and he flinches, thinking about all the ways a wrong sound could get him killed. moreau is tut-tut-tutting in his ear again, like before, in the during .

the whole team is talking, mumbling mercies and platitudes, and his heart is racing in his chest, pounding like heels on rooftops and down staircases in foreign countries. the rain beats down on the window like fists, like prisoners you knew before they were prisoners and allies you used to trust, and he's not really breathing; the air in the crawlspace is too thin. his hands are shaking, and his CO is saying “steady, steady,” whispering it like a mother to her babe, and the shot rings out with that familiar flashbang of lighting.

"stop," he mutters, and it feels like too much noise, too much noise (surely, they're going to catch him this time). "please, stop. stop."

the air falls quiet, like new york news as the death of osama bin laden is broadcast, like hushed last phone calls on the plane going down, army basecamps right before the armada. it's quiet like death is- like two lovers who don't know each other yet. like hair coiling, blackening, burning in the heat. his breath hitches like he can remember it.

"...eliot?" parker asks, because she's parker, crazy by design, but even now, she isn't touching him, though her hands are outstretched like she wants to. hardison looks at her like she has horns, like she's breaking a vault while the sirens scream, and she is, in every conceivable way. it makes eliot ache in a way he didn't know he could still feel. it makes him want to be the person she thinks him to be.

he meets parker's gaze like he's staring down the business end of a gun. like being the fish in the barrel.  he averts her gaze, transfixed on the city skyline behind her, peering through beating rain. he's scanning for men laying belly-down on balconies, sniper's trained and at the ready. he struggles to make out the horizon through obscuring strands of hair he doesn't remember growing out. he swallows, fingers flexing with a familiar hunger for hurt.

before he's aware of it, he's being lead to the couch, his soaking jacket somehow shed without his knowledge (he was too busy counting hats, mapping exits. moreau wants to know how many hats). the sofa is soft beneath him, swallowing him in warmth better than his standard-issue sleeping bag, and he's helpless against the hands on his shoulders pushing him purposefully deeper. the nails are enough for him to know it's sophie, even though he can't fully see her in front of him. the hair is tucked behind his ear with a tenderness he didn't know still existed. that he doesn't think he can deserve.

he isn't sure how long he sits there, his hands shaking in his lap. he isn't sure how long the silence permeates till it's replaced with the sound of knife striking board, and he comes to understand that Chopped reruns have been playing on the screens ahead, and it's sweet because they think he'd like it, not because he does. his boots have been unlaced, pulled from his feet (now bare, like christ folding on the floor in front of the disciples, moreau saying "wash my feet, eliot") and set gently near the end of the sofa. the thermostat has been turned to a temperature he lovingly calls "oklahoma august," which the rest of the team always whines is too hot, and the smell of thai food from his favorite food truck seeps into the air. he hangs on the scent like a cartoon character to fresh pie on the window.

it's too much like post , rather than post-post, the way they smile at him shambling to the island. the ache of the fights from the past weeks are starting to catch up to him; without a fresh neck in his hands, it's easier to remember the skin peeled from his knees. seeing him, nate holds out a steaming plate of his favorite and eliot takes it slowly. he stares down at it, enchanted by the authenticity of it even after it's pulled from a takeout box.

but you don't eat things you didn't see prepared; it's a lesson he learned after being poisoned in some hole in south america, and that he risked with every hors d'oeuvre moreau would hold to his lips, saying taste this, meaning die for me, like the sound of vultures overhead. something must change in his eyes because nate isn't smiling anymore. because nate is reaching out, taking the plate back, and it's clear that he doesn't understand what he's done wrong, no one does, not even sophie, if the way her gaze fluctuating between eliot and nate is to say anything.

"i'm not supposed to eat anything i didn't cook," he instinctively explains (this must be a test), wanting the sad look to leave hardison's eyes. "you either. i'm not supposed to let you eat anything i didn't prepare- that i didn't taste."

a beat of silence follows, heavy like the snow piling on slates, like soot on a seven-year-old brow. nate breaks it hesitantly.

"eliot-"

"let me taste your food," eliot says, all too much like the during and unlike post or post-post; it's too soft and ungrowled, too eliot and not enough spencer .

the look sophie shares with nate is deadly- like hiroshima at ground zero or kitum cave circa 1980. there's a silent battle wagging there, one eliot can't find the energy to care about because, without even a second of hesitation, parker hands him her plate of too-sweet noodles. she smiles at him, strange in that way parker always is, like a rat taking trap-bound cheese.

eliot takes care, inspecting the color, the smell, and though all of it is wrong, it's parker's, and it smells like how parker likes pad woon sen, which a post , but not post-post, eliot would have the energy to despise tenderly. but that's not who he is now, twirling noodles up on the fork, chewing garishly until he can gulp them down with confidence, like swallowing a key and knowing they can't beat it out of you. like downing the rations before the taste of them reaches your brain. he hands the plate back, feeling lighter, and hardison must be able to tell because he offers his dish up next. he watches as eliot inspects it thoroughly like a jeweler counting carats. the process doesn't take long, and, after a few minutes, each takeout box has been combed through for error, and eliot has determined they are safe enough to settle at the bar for the meal.

he doesn't sit down though, isn't supposed to. he goes to check exits, to stand by the door. he thinks about meetings in moreau's office, thinks about clubs and bars and women in bikinis that moreau never wanted to touch. because women were shows- because if moreau wanted something, he got it, and eliot knows this, so he knows moreau didn't want the women. he knows that moreau hungered for something different- not younger, but meaner. harder. he thinks about moreau in the sauna, beckoning eliot over, saying dismiss your post and meaning drop to your knees, folding before him like christ, like washing feet, like intimacy anew. he thinks about hardison, tied to the chair, and about chapman and his gun and moreau towel-drying sweat from his skin. he thinks about the kick, the move he invented, and hardison sucking air from the pneumatic, thinks about sucking air and-

///

"pause the show," sophie says, right before eliot goes from nervously checking the locks for the dozenth time to crumpling to the floor, his fingers digging claw-like into the edge of the doorframe. his breaths are too quick, huffing in and out, in and out, fast as chopper blades overhead screaming against wind. his whole body is vibrating by the time ted's voice is cut off, hand closing over the cloche in slow motion.

parker is the first to him, light on her feet and perching in front. she observes him like a cat might a dead bird; curiosity and hunger, unfamiliar yet innate. but then that hunger fades, is sated, and she's tucking her knees beneath her body and folding herself by eliot, kneeling. she surrounds him, skin heavy like a blanket, and eliot melts into her like one fades into the air after jumping from a plane- the way the heat melds to your back as an explosion follows you out the door.

with only slightly more hesitance, hardison joins them on the floor, his long arms enveloping them. eliot's hair tickles his nose, hardison's soft breaths blowing them away, then pulling them back like the ebb and flow of waves lapping a shoreline. he closes his eyes for a long moment, batting away the thought of water filling his lungs, and reopens them to find nate staring down awestruckenly.

sophie smiles softly in a way that means she knows something no one else does, cracking the mark open like a pistachio shell. hardison squints, searching for an answer, but she gives none. instead, she pulls nate away by his wrist, casting a look across the room before quietly trailing up the staircase, leaving eliot, parker, and hardison tucked tightly into the corner.

///

the seconds evade him while he sits there, sobbing on the floor. it feels like a weakness, something he should be hiding- he hasn't cried like this since the night his momma died (not in his pristine funeral suit. his father has pulled his tie-tight and said, "now don't you embarrass me," and he didn't then- made sure he never did again.) he hadn't cried like that the entire time during , or post , but now it was post-post and here he was, broken to bits on the wooden floor of a dingy bars' loft in boston.

not for the first time, he finds himself wondering how the hell he ended up here. how he escaped the during , how he made it to post-post. because, really, he's seen greater men die on their first tour. he's been in the hellholes they strung soldiers up in, purple heart wearers bleeding nothing but red, red, red- and he's been that man, russian roulette spun and against the odds making it a baker's dozen rounds before the tortures tired of threats and moved onto toenails. even then, he didn't cry like this- if he did cry, well, that was sweat in his eyes. that was him praying to a lord he stopped believing in at 18, saying, "if you get me out of this one alive, i'll get better" and it never, ever being true.

he isn't aware that parker and hardison have been whispering a mantra of "it's okay, it's okay, eliot, you are here, you are ours" until they pause for breath until parker's voice is addressing hardison, asking, "hey- hey, if it's too much, it's okay. you can take a break."

it's then that he realizes he isn't the only one praying then; they all are, the shoulders of his shirt on either side soaked through, not by the unrelenting rain but by the two closest things he has to family. that hardison's voice has gone from soft and strong to shaky: a leaf resisting those oklahoma winds rising from 40 to 50, from cold fronts and warm one crashing and crushing everything in their path as they war with one another. that parker's body has cooled as she gifted her warmth to eliot's still rain-frozen form.

it's then that he realizes he's lucky. that san lorenzo is sweeter because parker dashed it with maple syrup when he wasn't looking- that hardison replaced the whiskey sours with sodas. that post-post doesn't fit any of the characters sophie has taught him to play, and that he doesn't need to count the hats because nate already has; he knows each shape and each color, the brand names printed on the bill.

the next breath is a little deeper as hardison whispers, "i'm good, i'm good," across him to parker, and eliot feels the rattle of her head against his neck more than he sees it. the way they draw in a little closer, the way parker subconsciously syncs their breathing like sophie's taught her to do with marks, but it's different because eliot isn't a mark- because it isn't post-post, it's something different entirely.

it's the scent of his favorite thai food crusted in the corners of an unwiped mouth. it's his closet being reorganized by color, his go-bag packed with money he didn't put there. it's in-jokes and damnits and distinctive sounds. it's not explaining because they won't make him.

when his breathing is finally stable, he feels them pull back- not entirely, but enough that there's an instant ache in eliot's gut for them to come back to him. hardison's brows are knit, all the anger of the week prior washed away and replaced with nothing but care. parker is smiling gently with that even present lilt to her eye- like she's stolen his watch and is waiting for him to notice.

with slowly re-steadying hands, eliot brushes the last remnants of tears from his face, feeling his cheeks flush slightly when his father's voice tries to rise from somewhere within him. as though feeling the demon climbing up, hardison places a hand on the outskirts of eliot's bicep, holding him gently- grounding him.

"you good?" hardison asks simply, but the question makes all the raw things in eliot sore again in the way a second-day sunburn feels; not quite painful, but omnipresent. warm.

"yeah," he finds himself saying, and it's not something a post eliot would mean, but maybe a post-post eliot does. maybe a post-post eliot can. he finds himself smiling at the notion.

"yeah, i am."

[z3llous]

Lost in the City

[ Sep 05, 2020 ]

Sanji x reader

Click . Click. Click. One foot after the other. Their shoes had hit the pavement in rapid succession. Around a corner, over a fence, up a building, and on the roof they went. His form trailed  behind them in haste.

Why? They didn't ask for this. Of all the people, why him? Just make it disappear. His existence haunted the deepest depths of their mind, blood pumping alarmingly fast at the sound of his laugh. They wished it would all just wash away.

He just wouldn't give up. Down the building and onto the sidewalk they dropped. As they began to run passed the sewing shop an idea crossed their mind.

"Pervert! He's following me! Help!" y/n yelled loudly in hopes of gaining the attention of some old friends.

Success. The older ladies of the shop raced out to help. They wouldn't let any harm come to their young friend.

---

It had started out as a small crush, easy to ignore. He never fawned over them, barely even looked their way. It was so simple to avoid those miniscule feelings. Keyword being "was".

Y/n was the Straw hat's artist. Their personal art was kept away from prying eyes. Until, he came along.

Early morning sun drifted over the quiet kitchen as their pencil shamelessly danced across paper, one stroke to the right, then a curve to the left. Vaguely aware of his presence, their attention was absorbed in their work.

Unknown to them Sanji had stopped prepping breakfast and was softly approaching. He leaned over their shoulder to see a masterpiece in the making. His hair caressed their ear. Y/n slowed down as realization had seeped in.

"The wispy lines make it look delicate, red ribbons add a nice pop of color, and the soft colorful shading really pulls it all together. It's probably your best work yet." Sanji said examining their work. His breath gently brushed  a strand of y/n's hair.

"Thanks." y/n answered as calmly as possible, refusing to show how flustered they were.

Sanji strode away at an even pace, unknowing of y/n's lingering gaze.

How dare he....

Y/n's face grew slightly warmer as they tried desperately to focus on the drawing.

---

Y/n slowed their speed enough to amusingly glance back at his suffering.

That broom has got to hurt

Hastily y/n took a left turn, rushing toward the bridge.

When they arrived here the crew was surprised to find that it was y/n's home Island.

Y/n wanted to take a small break from the crew and stay there for a month to study under a master artist. Luffy agreed, but decided to make a game out of it.

If y/n could avoid being touched by Sanji for a whole hour they could leave to study for a month.

Then why was Sanji, so determined? Well, they didn't mention it was only for a month.

Dust and dirt coated his shirt, hair disheveled, and yet his will untouched. He arose from the pavement. Left turn and to the bridge he ran. Y/n was a third of the way across.

---

Slash after slash. He couldn't get close enough to land a decent kick. He'd gotten himself into a fight with a skilled distant to mid range fighter.

Warm crimson dripped down as he panted leaning against a wall. He dropped to the floor desperately to avoid another shot. Failure. Yet another hit had landed. Aggressively the air was stolen from his lungs. His vision grew blurry and sound distant. He'd lost. A gun pointed to his head, it was over.

Blood splattered. Metal hit stone. A knife had embedded itself into the hand of the enemy. A familiar figure rushed in, blade in hand. The deed was done, and the body hit the floor.

"Sanji! Stay awake. I'll get Chopper. Everything will be alright." The shadowy figure said in an echoey voice before quickly disappearing from his sight.

He vision faded as a brown furry blob ran up to him.

Everything hurt. A light peaked in through the window blinding him. He turned his head to avoid the bright nuisance. The door creaked open and the little doctor walked in.

"Don't move around too much, you almost died. If you need anything or help going somewhere just ask." Chopper said as he checked for any reopened wounds.

"What happened? I know I lost." Sanji replied in a stained voice staring at the ceiling.

"Y/n was nearby and took him out. I was too weak after my fight to lift you, so they carried you too. Everyone else is busy and I'm still feeling weak, so y/n will be checking in on you." chopped answered before walking out of the room.

I need to thank them.

A knock came from the door.

"Come in." He said as clearly as he could muster.

Y/n walked in.

"Feelin alright? Need anything?" Y/n asked sitting down in the chair next to the bed.

"I'm doing pretty well for someone who almost died." He joked. "I could really use some water, if you don't mind." He added shortly after.

"Alright."

Y/n left for a moment and came back with a glass of water. His arms weren't in the best condition so y/n had to help him hold the glass.

Water dripped down his chin. Y/n carefully set the glass down. They leaned in and gently dabbed him dry with their sleeve.

Sanji's eye widened slightly and his view drifted to the floor.

"Thank you, for everything. I'd be dead if you hadn't stepped in..." He said quietly voice trailing off. His eye refused to meet theirs and remained glued to the floorboards below.

"It's not a problem." They said smiling. Their gaze traveled to his disheveled hair.

"Your hair is a bit messy. Do you mind if I tidy it up a bit?" Y/n asked finally gaining the attention of his avoidant gaze.

"N-No, go ahead." He said embarrassment filling him at the thought of how much of wreck he probably looked like.

Y/n left for a moment returning with a brush. Soft bristles stroked his hair. The brushing slowed wherever it got caught in a knot. They gently untangled his messy golden locks.

Warmth filled him and his heart fluttered at their whisper of a touch.

I might not have seen it clearly, but damn they looked so badass saving me back there.

---

He caught up to y/n quickly. They dodged his hand for the fifth time that day, sidestepping and shoving a large metal cart off the bridge.

They crossed the bridge as adrenaline slipped away. A lack of footsteps behind caused them to slow to a stop. He wasn't there.

Eyes traveled below to see a soggy Sanji washed ashore with the metal cart pinning him at the waist in such a way that he shouldn't be able get up. Guilt drifted in and so they made their way down.

Rough rocks crunch under their shoes as they cautiously walk up to him. Y/n squatted down to examine him better.

Slowly his head lifts to see them. The dust and dirt had washed away and in return a small scratch on his cheek filled its place. His arm outstretched to touch them, they were but an inch too far. It was clear that he was stuck.

Knowing their win was only a minute away y/n sat down before him. Bitter ticking drifted to his ears as they pulled out a pocket watch.

He couldn't win.

A coldness crawled through him and his heart cried for it to be a lie.

"Y/n, please don't go. Please..." His voice cracked.

They continued to silently hold up the watch  and stare off into the distance as time slowly slipped away from his grasp.

"Stay. Please. I can't lose you!" He cried out as he reached for them.

Tears began to slide down his face.

"Y/n, I love you! Please!" He pleaded, crying harder and reaching out for anything, his head down in despair.

Suddenly a softness made contact with his hand. Looking up, he couldn't believe his eyes. Sanji's hand was nestled into y/n's hair.

"3. 2. 1. Time is up, you win." Y/n said looking up and smiling at him from their now hunched over position.

Carefully the cart was lifted and set aside.

They pulled him up and held him close.

"It's alright, I'll stay." y/n said as Sanji clung on, his wet hair and clothes dripping all over them.

"Come on. Let's head back and get you all dried off." They said letting go.

Sanji lingered a few seconds longer before letting go.

---

The crew happily welcomed them back and the pair headed off to y/n's room to dry off.

Sanji sat on y/n's bed wearing an oversized sweater of theirs, bandage on his cheek. Y/n stood before him gently drying his hair off with a towel as he nuzzled his face into their chest. His hands gripped fistfuls of y/n's loose shirt.

"You alright?" y/n asked looking down to where his face was buried.

"I was so scared." He whispered.

Y/n tensed before wrapping their arms around him.

"I'm sorry...I was only leaving for a month." Y/n's voice escaped remorsefully as they rubbed his back.

He looked up, eyes wide.

"A month?!" He whispered loudly.

"Mmmhmm, I wasn't planning on leaving permanently...but I just couldn't leave a poor, crying,  baby boy behind. Wouldn't have been able focus on studying." They said quietly pulling him in close and placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

He buried his face into their neck to avoid their gaze.

"Aww, it's ok. I don't mind staying with. My. Precious. Baby. Boy." Y/n said closely to his ear, slowing the pace to say each word separately for emphasis.

He held them tightly and refused to raise his head.

Y/n's hand slid down to lightly trace the shape of his side. He shivered beneath their touch.

"Do you like that? Would you like more, my love?" y/n said teasing him.

He nodded still not looking up at them.

"Alright then, as you wish, darling. Stop me if I go too far." y/n said with a hint of underlying mischief.

Their finger traced down his side, to his hip, across his thigh, and stopped at his knee for a moment. They began to work back before sliding under the sweater. They slowed to see if he'd stop them and when he didn't an affectionate warmth filled them. His grip tightened and they continued, sliding their hand up his back.

"Sanji, please look at me." Y/n said gently, tracing hearts on his back.

He loosened his grip to look at them. Immense heat radiated from his face and ears, eyes half lidded.

"I love you with all my heart." Y/n said leaning in and stopping a miniscule distance from his lips and looking deeply into his eyes.

He froze before closing his eyes and crossing the distance between then.

Y/n's hand slid down from his back and gripped his thigh lifting the leg up as the other hand was lost in his hair.

Y/n gently pushed Sanji onto the mattress as their kiss reached its end. They couldn't help but loving gaze down at him. He looked so adorable beneath them.

They pulled up the sweater looking repeatedly at him, to check if he was alright with it. He tugged on their sleeve dazedly. Leaning in they left a trail of soft kisses all across his collar bone, down the center of his chest, and worked back up to his neck.

Sanji leaned in to their touch and slowly slipped into a sleepy haze.

"Are you tired?" Y/n asked ceasing another trail of kisses.

Sanji nodded and wrapped his arms around the neck, pulling their face closer to him.

"Alright, you can sleep with me tonight, my precious prince."y/n said placing one last kiss on his cheek.

The couple crawled under the covers. Y/n pulled his head to their chest wrapping their arms around and tangling their legs with his.

He slipped away into a sweet slumber, engulfed in their love.

[bomberqueen17]

bearselkie lifestyle accessories

so for various long story reasons involving his grandfather’s pocket knives and being locked in a house for twelve months, my dude recently purchased a pocket knife, and after his normal fashion, this was preceded by excessive research, after which he bought a kind of overengineered example of the genre from a specialty retailer. none of this is crucial to the story, except--

well yesterday in the mail a catalogue came, from and please understand that if i new how to do fancy font effects I would, SMOKY MOUNTAIN KNIFEWORKS.

While dude was cooking dinner-- his specialty, which is to take a hunk of fillet of salmon and pan-sear it to perfection in this stainless steel braising pan we have that has to be heated with the oil in it just right or it’s a sticking nightmare but if you do it just so you get this gorgeous sear and the fish slides right out the pan onto your plate like *chef’s kiss*

anyway I was sitting at the table in the eat-in kitchen chortling like a feral goblin as I leafed through this catalogue.

cut entirely for length, please join me on this ride:

Please understand, though, I wasn’t mocking it at all. I kept saying I need this every page and I was completely unironic. Possibly the best part of all this is that Dude had somehow despite being in an exclusive relationship with me for eighteen years had before this moment never quite realized that I am

super into knives

and have held myself back all this time out of sheer desperate clear-eyed understanding that I am a suburbanite now and it is inappropriate for me to own a machete. But understand that when I was growing up a machete was a perfectly normal thing for a child to possess and even use fairly regularly.

It came out in conversation that dude has never even held a machete, and like, who are we.

anyway. The item I have fixed my beady little eyes upon (after a suitable detour to howl at the tin signs featuring guns and the slogan Curious About Life After Death? Try Trespassing, And Find Out and weeping eagles with slogans about freedom and such, and several with slogans about hunting; I admit those were reactions of a possibly-mocking sort) is this:

it is a mock-abalone-decorated POCKET KNIFE shaped like a LADY’S LEG IN A HIGH HEEL SHOE this is the most amazing thing i have ever seen?????

I am consumed with a passionate need to own this, and yet, I already own a keychain knife and a boxcutter and several other cutting implements. I have no real need of a pocket knife shaped like a lady’s leg in a high heel shoe.

I need it, though, and I’m not even sure why.

But around this moment, like a lightning bolt, it came to me, that this creature, who is now I guess an OC?-- the version of me that is a selkie who is also a bear, who lives in a cabin in the woods with a hot tub on the deck, and who eats salmon by the bucketfull while lounging in her hot tub with her tits out--

the bearselkie would own this knife

and would also have one of those trucker hats with the slogan about women wanting me and fish fearing me

and would own several machetes at the very least, so

IDK that she’s an OC but she’s sort of veered off just being my platonic self-actualized ideal a bit, what with, like, one thing and another, so really maybe she is

anyway, I don’t have a conclusion for this, just take a moment and wistfully imagine this bearselkie in her cute woodscabin with its deck and hot tub, and the cute postal carrier arrives with a package and since this is a better world there’s a moment for the bearselkie to answer the door for her package wearing her hastily thrown-on cargo shorts and an open flannel shirt with nothing under it and the fish fear me trucker hat and she signs for her long-anticipated package and then proceeds to excitedly open it with this in-context incredibly gay lady’s leg-shaped folding knife right before the cute postal carrier’s dazzled eyes, and idk what’s in the package that’s so great but this has veered off into a slightly more pornographic place than I’d intended on going but boy I sure have been kinda isolated and under a lotta stress this past year idk about y’all

but prolly they eventually fuck on the bearskin rug by the fire which is actually the bearselkie’s skin and maybe there’s plot at some point when the cute mail carrier finds out but maybe nobody really questions anything and it’s just hot because let us have nice things.