#cable tie colors

[clariannt]

Nylon cable ties, often known as zip ties, are essential tools for cable management across various settings. Whether you're organizing cables in a home office, setting up a commercial wiring system, or handling industrial projects, selecting the right cable tie can make a significant difference. In this guide, we explore the different types of Clariannt nylon cable ties, their benefits, and tips for choosing the ideal size and color for your needs.

Webiste Link: https://clariannt.in/

[archangeldyke-all]

Reader who crochets? And she makes these special sweaters with the left sleeve cut out for Sev’s arm?? Omg

-🥨

ANON did u see logan @sevikasenby 's crochet tapestry of our wife!?!?? THE TALENT IS BEYOND

men and minors dni

there's a superstition in the knitting/crocheting community called 'the sweater curse.' the idea is basically that when you hand make a prospective romantic partner a sweater, you doom the relationship to fail.

you've read countless horror stories on crocheting forums about relationships going up in flames once a sweater is gifted.

'she called the sweater ugly after i spent a month on it.'

'he thought a hand-made sweater was too intimate and i was moving too fast.'

'they left with no explanation the same day i bought the yarn for their sweater.'

you've seen it all.

you know that the curse is something to fear. and you really don't want to lose sevika. but she's stubborn.

sevika thinks the fact that you crochet is so. fucking. cool.

most people think it's a grandma hobby.

sevika thinks it's the most impressive thing in the world. you can make anything. she's watched you knit blankets, sweaters, tops and socks. little stuffies for the neighbor kid next door, hats for your friends' birthdays. mug cozies, coasters, pillow cases and dog clothes-- she's seen you make it all.

and she's dying to have you make her something.

"don't you love me?" sevika whines one night as she cuddles in bed beside you while you crochet a scarf.

"can't stand you, actually." you grunt, already knowing what she's about to bother you about. she huffs.

"you don't understand baby. i was sooo cold at work today-- freezing, really-- and it's not like i can go buy a sweater 'cause of my ar--"

"you're so fucking annoying." you groan. sevika chuckles.

"is it so bad to want to show off my baby's work?" she asks. you huff, shaking your head.

"it is when it means we'll break up!"

she wears you down over time.

you start crocheting her little things, wanting her to feel loved but not wanting to subject the two of you to the curse.

you crochet her a little keychain charm on your anniversary; a hat for winter solstice. in the spring, you make her a few new scrunchies for her half-ponytails.

for her birthday, you give her the first big crochet project you've made for her: a purple poncho in a thick, warm yarn, perfect for the colder windy days when her thin red poncho isn't enough.

she cries when you show it to her. (she nearly gets heat stroke a week later when she tries to wear her new winter poncho on a blazing hot day.)

when you propose to her (kneeling in front of her where she sits on the couch kissing her hands, metal and flesh alike, as you bat your eyelashes at her,) sevika doesn't even let you finish the question before she's pulling you off the ground and into her lap, kissing you breathless, and pulling away with a sob. "yes!"

"you didn't even let me ask!" you laugh. sevika kisses you again.

"you have to crochet me a sweater now. make it white, i'll wear it to our wedding." she cries.

you don't do that. (though you do crochet the neck tie she wears on your big day.)

you wait until you've been married for a year, until you're settled in married life and comfortable, until sevika's not expecting it anymore.

and then, on the night of your first wedding anniversary, you give sevika her first sweater.

it's the most intricate thing you've ever made. the cable crochet pattern you used was complex and time consuming, but it looks fucking gorgeous. beautiful royal purple-- her favorite color-- her exact measurements, and sleevless on the left side.

sevika wears the sweater everywhere. all the time. whenever she can.

you only planned on making her the one, but her reaction (and the wear and tear the sweater receives from being worn by the scary woman of zaun) inspires you.

you knit her a new sweater, every year, for the rest of your lives.

taglist!

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

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

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

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

@sevsdollette @ellieslob

[megtrns]

seasonal anthologies ft. the mtmte bots, sfw !

summer is for celebrations and driving down to the beach with drift, where the air hot and thick despite the setting sun in the distance. you stick your head out the passenger window to feel the wind rushing past your ears, the excited roar of his engines bouncing off the cliffside. it's sitting on rodimus's shoulders as he runs past the shore, the spray of cold water making you squeal into the side of his helm. june, july, august — salt dissolves in your mouth while thunder rumbles in the distance. you sit by the steps of your porch with swerve, the air heavy with heat. as if the earth was holding its breath in anticipation, waiting to break and give way to rain. his big, blocky fingers awkwardly tearing through an orange for you to eat. saccharine and sticky, the fruit drips down your forearms with every bite. green is the grass between your toes, grey is the sky as it melts to nightfall. summer is when the mattress dips unequally to one side, where you and tailgate sleep back to back, skin to metal. the warmth sinks into your bone, blanket on the floor as the faint whirring of his systems lulls you to sleep. fall is for new beginnings, shorter days, and knitted scarves. where the sunlight is lighter and softer, casting long, golden shadows across ratchet's face. he displaces his mass to help you tie your coat by its belt, pulling you closer to soak in the heat radiating off his chassis—soft wool between his shiny servos. september bleeds into october, and somewhere between, where the air is so clean it shivers, cyclonus walks next to you in muted contemplation. optics quietly taking in the ocean of leaves crunching underneath his pedes. cinnamon between your teeth as you swallow your longing, fingers tracing over the holo-picture of skids. nautica says the muted colors remind her of him, but she blames it on the morning chill creeping past her cables. you tell her that fall is the season of reminiscing, of missing what is gone and what is yet to come — the ending and beginning of things, the place where all things come to die. the soil is soft and the world is asleep. this is the part where you turn off the lights and leave.

winter is for joy and relaxation, november a mosaic of warm orange windows and deep blue nights, where the moonshine falls thin and silver. minimus is determined to keep you from straying off the path, guiding you through the thick heap of snow — arms intermingled, hand and servo intertwined. your laughter rings into the night like bells, airy and light; a quiet wish, a happy prayer. for some, december is asleep. it's reclusive and shy, just like rung when he gives in to your request to stay inside, submitting to the weight of the duvet as it swallows you both. for others, the darkness only makes them vigilant. optics wide awake, prowl slinks back into the shadows, pale like the blizzard, soundless like a secret. early mornings and frozen lakes, megatron tells you the winter is cruel — barren and empty, silencing the earth. you disagree, telling him that winter is full of hope, where the snow is white with the promise of forgiveness. the promise to begin again.

spring is for waking up under the sun, where the light kisses your cheeks and shoulders; brainstorm suddenly envious of the star. you chew berries against the bark of an old, dying tree. skin buzzing with a new kind of energy, heart bursting at the sight of perceptor studying the small animals in the distance. in february, you stretch your arms to welcome a night of storms. in march, you patiently listen to whirl complain about the pollen in his cogs. finally, in april, the air is alive, sweet and rosy, laughing and singing. first aid lifts you with his open palm, across a running stream, down a winding, rocky path. somewhere behind you, misfire raises his helm to the clear, cloudless sky. drowning himself in the sound of strange birds and even stranger insects. there is a tenderness to all of this, capricious and fickle, flowers buried in the wash of green grass. a dream you don't want to wake up from, an embrace you're not ready to part with. nightbeat says he hates when beautiful things are fleeting, and you think he's no longer referring to the spring, optics sad and distant as they land on you.

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Not as long as I would've liked but I kept it in my drafts for long enough so here it is. My semester is almost ALMOST finished so I'll have some more time after that and 2002 Rust is hard af to write. Though, I hope this carries those of you who've stuck with me, through. Love you guys

Warnings: Cussing, drinking, smoking, drugs, references to domestic abuse, references to transactional sexual activity, references to sex work

Rust sits at the bar, tapping the edge of his Camels on the bar top, when he remembers Travis sneering at the first pack of cigarettes he'd brought home. Just another checkpoint in the list of defiance that his 16 year old self had started to compile. It wasn't the smoking that had pissed Travis off, Rust knew that. It's that he had bought one of those sleek, little cartoons; all bright-colored, branded and ready-rolled. A perfect 'fuck you' to Travis' contemptuous survivalism that kept them without cable and without the sugary stuff that Rust always dragged from by the scruff of his hunting jacket, on the rare trip to tiny provision stores. Just another cut of modernity that he was deprived of; another part of him that, when he had first left, he'd meticulously contrived to slot right into suburbia. Rust didn't give a really fuck in '95, gave even less of a fuck when he was undercover. But now him and Marty are getting older so it's easier to slide into that slow and easy catatonia. Over the past few years, the grudging after work beers had been getting more endurable, Marty's preening around his backyard during 4th of July barbecues almost forgivable. A man's home is his castle and Marty wears that badge of honor with the pompousity belonging only to undeserving men. Marty, Maggie, Laurie, the whole vivarium of the performance of what's normal, good and Christian, as if the bayou wasn't out there with the Spanish moss waiting to blow in a breeze that never arrives and the women's bodies who no-one ever finds.

'Hey.'

Rust looks at her closer, this time. She was always a chameleon, Cassandra. Then again, you'd have to be, in a profession like hers. She's changed out of the pencil skirt and Rust has half a mind to ask her if she's kept the same cutoffs from all those years ago. He doesn't. It's selfish and he hopes she's burned everything goddamn thing she owned from back then. It was always a uniform of some sorts; Rust sees it in the girls he interrogates, in the crime scene photos pasted onto his walls. Those frayed shorts and tiny tops and push up bras and boots or wedges or heels filled in with Sharpie to hide the scuffs. Rust still sees Cassandra, flimsy fabrics stained with blood, sweat or beer, and his biker leather draped over her shoulders, shivering after too many hits of a post-shift joint. He knows she hasn't burnt them. It would be far too dramatic an action and a waste of money. An emotional catharsis limited to suburbanite teenage girls, accustomed to the back-ups and retribution that Cassandra knew she couldn't afford.

Rust remembers the first time they'd talked about this nihilistic disillusionment of hers. It seemed apt on him, with his scars and callouses and whiskey breath. Cassandra's acrimony towards 'the pigs' and 'the system' had seemed almost sweet on a girl with a hot pink hair tie around her wrist. That was before Rust had learnt that she still barricaded the door to her room, now living alone.

'Hate me even more, now?' Rust's voice is gritty with cigarettes and the preliminary beer he drank, before her arrival.

'I knew you were a cop, back then,' Cassandra counters, voice icy as if to veil the hurt that he may have forgotten; relegating her to another footnote of his grief.

Rust clicks his tongue,

'Nah, not really a cop. Didn't have the authority, at least.'

Cassandra watches him, her eyes narrowing fast,

'The fuck is your point? Want me to buy you a beer for your fucking promotion?'

Rust doesn't laugh. He just stares at her while taking another drag so Cassandra takes it upon herself to indulge him,

'Detectives ain't the responders to 911 calls, are they?'

'We ain't.'

'There you go.'

Rust scoffs,

'You hate patrollers?'

'Yeah, I do.'

'Those lazy assholes?' Rust drawls, and Cassandra almost slams his head against the bar top. Rust sees that anger in her eyes; the rage that boils up like hot vomit until she chokes on it, offering up something hideously vulnerable. Dog looking at its mess.

Cassandra lights her cigarette. Still Marlboro Golds, Rust notes.

'You want to know why he used to always leave the phone on the cord?'

Rust knows their talking about her father

'To fuck with me. That man couldn't make it to the toilet in time, most nights that he got liquored up, but the sick fuck always remembered to keep the phone on. Want to know why? Cause when he'd break out the belt or the fists or the bottles, the first thing that I would run to was the phone. Fuck, I was a kid. I didn't understand self-preservation, yet. And that man used to tell me that the cops would take 5 minutes but, in that 5 minutes, he could fuck me up however he wanted,'

Rust wonders if that's why she had to make herself beautiful. Pity. It distinguishes or at least elicits some sort of emotion that isn't just resignation towards those poor ol' children we need to pray for. Beauty. Otherwise, you're just another statistic dripping blood on the kitchen linoleum.

Cassandra exhales the smoke,

'The patrollers used to take 10.'

Rust holds her gaze, wondering he deserves to feel shame; past the empty platitudes and symbols that his badge carry. Cassandra stares down at the burning tip of her cigarette, raising her face up with her hand as she takes a drag. There she goes, back into that smooth, icy shell. Rust wonders what the diversions have since become, those little pivots she uses to veer you off from the path down to that dark, dirty shit. He also wonders if she's finally learnt not to bother with him. Not when they carry smears of each other, all over. Shit like that stains-even after all these years.

'What do you want to know, then? Boudreaux, right?'

Rust gives a nod,

'He ever talk you about the Yellow King?'

'The Yellow King?' Cassandra scoffs, 'Not exactly but it sounds like the type of shit he woulda come up with after a binge.'

Cassandra looks at Rust's stoic expression, evidently unsatisfied with her answer. She sighs,

'No. It doesn't come to mind but you know these guys. Up for a heavy sentence and, for once, are smart enough to see it. They'll grasp at any shit to rile you up. They're like kids.'

'Don't fuckin' infantilize them. They know what they were doing and they're real fuckin' proud 'til they end ass up, in Angola.'

'No, Rust, I mean literally and you know it too. Shit, I thought Texas was bad. Here, it's another fucking planet. You've seen the things they name their schools-schools- after. There ain't nothing that the Bible ain't able to gloss over. Hell, last case I had was a guy beat a another man's face into the concrete over 40 mg of oxycontin,'

Cassandra takes a moment to ask him,

'You seen all those pill mills you got going on, down here?'

Rust exhales some smoke,

'Ain't my division, anymore.'

Cassandra licks the inside of her cheek, pissed off by his nonchalance that she knows is contrived, before continuing,

'Anyway-this man killed another man like you would a damn hound. Said he needed the pills to hear Jesus.'

Rust already knows this. Not this story exactly, but these laconic tales about the depravity of humanity. It's like preaching to the goddamn choir with him.

'Want me to feel sorry for you or some shit? Tell you what a good job job you're doin'? Sittin in those rooms, listenin' to that shit, starin' at those pictures?'

Cassandra stares at him for a moment, almost taken aback. Then, she responds to aggression in the only way she's ever known,

'What, you wanna be an asshole with me cause you still feel shitty that you fucked a 20 year old and liked it?'

Rust almost falters, at that; not out of shock at the crass acidity with which she spits them out but at the sudden surge of nausea he feels at what he's done, something which has been quietly gnawing at the edges of his being. Never too comfortable, Rust is haunted by what he's done like a dull ache in all his joints. Sin and old age plastered on the lines of his face, you may as well be able to smell it on him. Rust sure can.

'I ain't here to re-hash any of that shit with you, Cassandra.'

'No? You think you're better than me, now?'

Rust huffs, gritty with smoke and liquor. It's a lazy retort, they both know it. Lazy and untrue. Cassandra, his ever tenacious Cassandra, licks the inside of her cheek. Rust wonders if she still bites it, remembering the blood he'd taste when he'd concede himself a kiss.

'You got a girl, now? That it?'

Cassandra's mocking tone does nothing to confine that jealous tinge that tilts her intonation downwards.

'Laurie ain't a girl. She's a woman,' Rust lights another cigarette.

'Ohhh, ok. Lau-rie,' Cassandra draws it out, turning it over her tongue, 'Cute name. Sweet, almost. Ain't nothing like Rust.'

'Well, people don't exactly get together based on the congruity of name,' Rust says, dryly.

Cassandra ignores him,

'Is she sweet? A real southern belle; Laurie sounds like that.'

'She's a doctor. Smart,' Rust pauses to let the next word sink into any slivers of hope that Cassandra's so desperately clinging onto, 'Steady.'

'Oh, cause you're so fucking steady, now? Got a badge and a button up, and you're suddenly Uncle-fucking-Sam, himself?'

'You got anythin' else to tell me about Bourdreaux or are we done?'

Cassandra stares at him before narrowing her eyes,

'No, Cra-Rust, we ain't done,' she spits, noticing his involuntary twitch at her slip of the tongue.

Rust pulls out his wallet, placing a couple bills on the bar top, enough to cover both of their drinks, before ambling out. A slower, more controlled walk than his Crash days. Less of a twitch in his neck, now standing firm and upright. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, nowadays. Cassandra grabs his arm and Rust remembers that desperate dig of nails, in his arms,

'You ain't leaving. Not like that. I don't see you for 8 years and, then, you show up with a badge and a Laurie, in the middle of a fucking swamp.'

Rust studies her for a moment,

'You were just a kid and I was some wild-ass biker junkie-'

'Don't you goddamn dare treat me like a stranger! I used to lick the blood from your teeth.'

'A fuckin' kid that I-'

'I would've found someone else to fuck me up, if you hadn't come along.'

'But I did and I was more than happy to do so,' Rust drawls, trying to seem resolute but they can both hear the fury that lies beneath his stoic penitence.

'Happy's a slight overstatement,' Cassandra pauses, 'You used to vomit, sometimes. Afterwards. I'd hear you.'

Rust doesn't say anything. Just another detail of their relationship that they had never acknowledged, too devastating to deal with the implications. It was easier to let it sit, same way a bullet stays under the skin to stop blood bursting out.

'It wasn't cause of you,' he mutters.

'I know.'

She can't look at him. Neither can he, so he leaves. This time she lets him but not without following close behind.

They walk to his truck with her just a foot away, but silent. He can smell her perfume, the oils she puts in her hair; it must be a small victory to her that she's finally become the woman she was always pretending to be. Rust isn't surprised. Cassandra was, hell still is, smart in how she studied people. Came with the territory of what she did and what she does now, she knew how to coddle men like babies. The girls at the club telling her to wear Elizabeth Taylor's perfume-White Diamonds or some shit- cause it would always get you an extra tip, reminding men of their momma's in their starched church clothes and rouge. Even when they get aggressive, Cassandra always told him that it usually wasn't pure violence, more pathetic desperation. A woman cooing and holding them the way that their mommas and then wives hadn't done in years. That didn't stop the acrimony with how she spoke it and looked at the yellowing, on her arm. She also studied women- she'd told Rust that too, in some dive bar in Galveston. The Chicana girls that went to her high school, mostly. Rust knew it wasn't the earrings or eyeliner, though; it was the authority.

'You make good money?' Rust asks, not bothering to turn as he opens the driver's side.

'You asking me if I turn tricks, on the side? Graduated from stripper to hooker?'

'Shut the fuck up.'

Cassandra looks at him, still knowing how to read him,

'I got a place, Rust.'

'Good, cause ain't no way in hell you're stayin' with me.'

Rust sits there, not starting the ignition. Cassandra knows this is the closest thing she's getting to an oppurtunity to ask, whatever the hell it is she wants from him.

'Give me your arm. I can bring over some files on Boudreaux. I don't need that shit taking up space now that he ain't my problem no more.'

It sounds too rehearsed, too rushed coming from Cassandra's mouth; as if attempting to reinstall that lacquer of composure through cruelty, one that she resents Rust for holding better than she has. She takes a pen from her purse, holding out her hand.

'I ain't got no paper.'

'Your arm, dumbass.'

Rust stares at her,

'I got Laurie now, girl. I don't need you runnin' one over me?'

'What game am I playing?' Cassandra asks, benignly but with that damn glint in her eye. He feels it again, that passivity. The story he told Marty about his time undercover always include that passivity: from the drugs, his department, his grief, Ginger and the rest of the Crusaders. But her always leaves Cassandra out. Rust is a man of extremes: complete detachment or entrenching himself so deeply in depravity, the he now wears part of it forever. No qualms about violence, just the way of the world and who you had to be and what you had to do. Cassandra's amorality always flawed him, though. In opposition to his, it was completely self-serving. Some might've call it selfishness, he called it survival instincts. She had always known what she had to do and how she had to be, to get some. Only way you can be, growing up letting the drug store creeps feel you up, over your bra, to pay for tampons. Rust stares at her now. She knows she's not a good person, neither is he. They never tried to pretend otherwise, to themselves or each other. That's more than most.

Rust extends his bare forearm over the rolled-down window.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

At Sunset - Joel Miller X Female Reader

Title: At Sunset

Joel Miller X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Sarah (Mentioned), Sarah's mother (Mentioned), Tommy (Mentioned), and Ellie

WC: 2,789

Warnings: Pre-walkers beginning, canon events mentioned, banter, flirting?, teasing, hint at grieving, mentions of abandonment, confessions, cursing, italics, friends to lovers, oblivious lovers, mentions of death, slight angst, and fluff

The sky outside was painted in soft pastel shades of pink and orange, the last remnants of daylight stretching lazily across the horizon. Golden light poured through the half-opened sheer purple curtains, casting warm stripes across the semi-messy room. Clothes - some clean, some not - were scattered across the floor, the result of some half-done spring cleaning shenanigans. The faded scent of your perfume lingered in the air, along with sunscreen from hours before. A half-drunk iced tea sat on your desk, condensation pooling around the glass and dampening the coaster it was placed upon. 

You were on your bed on your stomach, legs kicking softly in the air, a book propped open with one hand while you lazily reached for the small candy bag filled with Kisses beside you. The rustling of the bag filled the quiet room, mixing with the distant hum of crickets outside your window. Your fingers fumbled with the wrapper, too distracted by the sudden plot twist unfolding before you as you popped the chocolate into your mouth, savoring the sweet taste as it lingered on your tongue.

A soft tap against your window barely registered in your mind, dismissed as a stray branch or bug. But when it happened again, you finally glanced up, brows furrowing. Pushing yourself up, you pushed the tip of your thumb into your mouth to lick off the remnants of chocolate before you slipped off the bed. Walking to your window, you pushed the sheer curtains to the side, and pushed open your window. 

Joel stood below, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans, rocking slightly on his heels. The second your eyes met, Joel’s face broke into a slow smile. “‘Bout time,” He drawled, “Was startin’ to think you were ignorin’ me on purpose.”

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping, “Couldn’t ignore you if I tried.”

Joel’s smile grew, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, “Couldn't ignore me if you tried, huh?” He repeated your words, shaking his own head, “You busy?”

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the book still laying open on your bed. “Just readin’,” You admitted, running your fingers along the windowsill. “What are you up to?”

Joel shrugged, “Thought we could go for a drive. Maybe catch the sunset somewhere nice.”

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, a small flutter stirring in your chest at the thought - at the fact that he’d thought of you to join him. “That does sound nice,” You murmured, glancing at the sky, where soft pastel hues. Stepping back from the window, you shot Joel a playful look. “Stay put. I’ll grab my jacket.”

With one last glance, you shut the window and rushed over to your desk, snatching your sandy-colored cable knit sweater from the back of your chair and slipping it on. You grabbed your keys next, stuffing them into your pocket before darting out of your room. Taking the stairs two at a time, you nearly skidded to a stop at the door, hastily slipping on your Converse - without bothering to tie them, as usual - before stepping outside.

Joel was already waiting by his truck when you approached, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The second he saw you, his expression softened, and your smile brightened in response, right before you stumbled forward, your untied laces catching under your foot.

Joel moved quickly, one hand catching your arm while the other pressed against your waist to steady you. A quiet huff left him, part exasperated, part amused. “You gotta start tyin’ your damn shoes,” He said, shaking his head. “One of these days, you’re gonna smack your face into the ground.”

Still holding onto him, you tilted your head up with a sheepish smile. “Joel,” You said, voice soft with your own amusement, “I already did that in high school. You should remember, you were there.”

His brows lifted slightly before he scoffed, lips twitching. “Yeah, and you still ain’t learned a thing.”

Reluctantly, Joel let go of you, his hand brushing briefly against yours as he stepped back and opened the passenger door for you. You smiled, looking up at him, “Thanks,” You said, climbing in but he silently stopped you before you slid in all the way, feet dangling out the truck as you sat.

Joel crouched down in front of you, hands working to tie your shoes. You couldn’t help but watch, your gaze tracing the curve of his broad shoulders and the way the fading sunlight caught the dusting of stubble along his jaw. His hands were rough, yet gentle, as he worked the laces with practiced ease. It shouldn’t have affected you as it did, he had tied your shoes for you before, but still. Your heart swelled a little in your chest as you admired him. The way his flannel shirt fit him, how he ruffled the sleeves up above his forearms, his muscles working as he tied the little bunny-eared bows. There was just something about him, something that made you both feel grounded and oddly weightless all at once.

But then, as if sensing your gaze burning holes into him, Joel looked up at you, his dark eyes locking with yours, and his lips quirked into a small smile. “They too tight?”

You blinked, suddenly snapping out of the soft haze of purples and pinks you’ve been in. “N-No,” You stammered, shaking your head quickly, “They’re perfect.”

Joel’s smile deepened for a split second before he straightened up, brushing his hands off on his worn out jeans and stepping aside to let you fully sit in the truck. As Joel walked around the truck to slide into the driver’s seat, you couldn’t help but exhale deeply, pressing a hand to your warm cheek. It was only then that you realized how flushed your face had become, and you quickly cleared your throat, looking down at the compartment in front of you.

The engine roared to life, and Joel’s hands settled easily on the steering wheel.You leaned back in your seat, rolling the window down. The wind rushed in, tangling your hair and whipping against your outstretched hand. You held it out the window, letting the cold breeze flow over your skin, while your other hands absentmindedly fiddled with the locket around your neck.Your feet rested on the dashboard, the familiar, comfortable motion of driving mixing with the song that came on the radio. ‘With Or Without You’ by U2 played through the speakers, and you found yourself humming along, lips mouthing the words in a quiet, half-hearted sing-song.

Joel glanced over at you, a small smile tugging on his lips as he took in the sight of you, lost in the moment. His eyes flickered back to the road, but the smile never left his face. There was something so peaceful, so right about it - just the two of you, driving in the fading light of the day, the world passing by without a care.

It was hard to believe how long you’d known Joel - how much had changed and yet, somehow, how much had stayed the same. You had met him back in high school, both of you just a couple of small town kids trying to figure out what you were meant to do in the world. It started with a shared class, where you were both paired up for a project, which then led to study sessions together, which then led to late-night phone calls where you talked about everything and nothing. Before you knew it, he had become your best friend, the one person you could count on no matter what.

Somewhere along the way, you realized you cared for him way more than a best friend should. It hit you like a freight train - slow at first, creeping in through the cracks of friendship, until one day it just hit you. But you had to push those feelings back when Joel started seeing Sarah’s mother. It wasn’t easy, watching him fall for someone else, but what could you do? You swallowed your feelings, and shoved them deep down. Overall, if he was happy, then that was more than enough for you. 

But then she got up and left. She left two years after Sarah was born. She walked out leaving Joel to live as a single young teenage father with a two year old to raise her all by himself. When Joel called you that night she left, you were furious. How dare she? How could she do that to Joel and Sarah? You went over to his place that night after the call. And, for the next seven years you had been there for them. You were there for them in every way - and in any way - you could be.

You showed up at his house with takeout when he was too tired to cook. Showed him easy-to-make recipes on the nights when he could. You were there for all the toddler tantrums, late nights trying to get Sarah to bed, birthdays, and even preparing for the first day of school. And babysitting? You loved it. Babysitting for you was never a chore; it was an honor. You adored Sarah. You loved all the princess tea parties, little shops at the mall, trips to the local Dairy Queen, watching Disney movies, baking cookies - everything. You adored that little girl with your whole heart.

At first, Joel felt guilty. He thought he was taking up too much of your life. You should have been going out, living like any other twenty-something, chasing dreams, making somewhat reckless decisions, staying out too late. But instead, you were there - pacing the room, hair a mess, dark circles under your eyes, bouncing a screaming toddler in your arms while he was sitting on the couch with his hands in his hair in frustration. 

“You don’t have to do this,” He had muttered more than once, running a tired hand down his face, guilt gnawing at him. “You should be out with your friends. I can’t believe you canceled to be stuck here listenin’ to a baby wailin’ her lungs out.”

But you had just given him that look of yours - the one that shut him up real quick, the one that told him that you weren’t going anywhere. “Joel.” You had sighed, adjusting Sarah in your arms as she finally began to quiet, little hiccups breaking up her cries. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

And you meant it. Of course, you did.

That was the thing - he hadn’t asked you to stay. He never once expected you to step up in the way that you did. But you did anyway. Without complaint, without hesitation. Every late night, every meltdown, every sick day - you were there. And, eventually, Joel stopped fighting the guilt. Because if there was one thing more powerful than the guilt, it was the quiet, aching truth he tried to ignore. 

He needed you. 

And Sarah? Well, she loved you.

Sarah adored you in the way only a child could - completely and without hesitation. She always wanted to be with you, reaching for you with tiny hands, giggling whenever you pulled her into your arms. She'd babble your name excitedly whenever she saw you, her face lighting up as if you were the best part of her day. And that continued to this day.

Speaking of Sarah…

“So…” You trailed off, grabbing one end of the worn blanket as Joel took the other, the two of you shaking it out before laying it down across the truck bed. As you smoothed out the edges, you glanced over at him. “Who’s watching Sarah?”

“Tommy,” Joel said with a huff, shaking his head. “Figured he owes me.”

You smirked, pushing yourself up onto the truck bed and settling in. “Hope you’re ready to come home and find out he let her drink soda and stay up past her bedtime.”

Joel exhaled through his nose before climbing up beside you. The night air carried a crispness that hinted at the cooler hours ahead, and without much of a thought, Joel draped an arm around you, pulling you into his side. His warmth seeped into you instantly. The sky, a mix of purple and orange, slowly gave way to the soft, golden remnants of the sunset, and the two of you sat there in comfortable silence, watching it fade. Rather romantic for just two friends, right? 

“I’m well prepared,” Joel muttered, a small smirk tugging at his lips, as if trying to brush off the idea of Tommy’s potential chaos with Sarah. “Not my first rodeo.”

“You know,” You started, “If you wanted to hang out, I am more than willing to come over. You didn’t need Tommy to babysit. I love spending time with both you and Sarah.”

Joel shifted beside you, his legs crossing at the ankles as he stared ahead, his gaze following the horizon as the sky turned dark blue. He shifted awkwardly, “I- uh,” He looked at the sparkling stars. “I wanted some… Time with just you, I guess. Alone.” His voice was quieter than usual, a subtle shift in his tone.

You blinked, “Oh?” You said softly. You turned your gaze to him, watching how he avoided looking at you, instead focusing on the worn fabric of his jeans. He picked at the jeans with his index finger and thumb, a little nervous habit of his that he picked up back in high school, something you learned he only did when he was uneasy or uncertain. “Do you… You know that you can tell me anything, right?” You spoke, looking up at him. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Joel murmured, shaking his head, finally meeting your concerned gaze, “Ain’t nothing wrong, sweetheart. I just- I’m in love with you.” He wasn’t expecting those last few words to just fly out of his mouth, but they did.

“Oh,” Was all you managed to say, the word escaping you in a soft breath. You felt your face flush, your chest tightening with the overwhelming rush of emotions that flooded in. It was the kind of feeling you only read about in books.

Joel’s gaze widened in panic, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, sweetheart,” He said quickly, “I didn’t mean to- I just thought… I’d hate it if I ruined our friendship.”

You reached out, taking his fidgety hand in yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you as you squeezed it gently. “No,” You whispered softly, cutting him off. “You didn’t. I-” You paused, trying to collect your thoughts, feeling the weight of everything you had kept bottled up for so long. “I was just… Surprised. I never thought-” You shook your head, letting out a shaky breath before looking him in the eye. “I’ve been in love with you, Joel. Ever since high school.”

Joel’s eyes widened slightly, and he leaned in closer, his expression softening, a look of relief and wonder crossing his face. “Really?” He asked, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the rush of emotions. “Yeah, really.”

Joel let out a soft, relieved huff, and for a moment, his hand lingered in yours before he slowly pulled it away. Without missing a beat, he reached up, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, his touch tender and warm. A teasing glint flickered in his eyes as he smirked. “Guess we’ve got a lot of time to make up for, huh?”

A small, breathy giggle escaped your lips, “Guess so.”

The distance between you seemed to shrink in an instant, and before you knew it, both of you were leaning in. 

“Joel…”

He heard a voice speak, he shut his eyes, trying to drown it out, but it persisted.

“Joel!”

His eyes snapped open in an instant, sitting up in his sleeping bag. His breathing was ragged, his hand coming up to press against his chest, his heart was racing underneath his skin. Ellie sat beside him, on her own sleeping bag, a concerned look on her face. 

“Are you alright? You were tossing a lot.” She asked, and Joel said nothing, pursing his lips, as he tried to calm down, but that dream - that memory - still haunted him. He looked around, remembering that he and Ellie were able to find a safe place to stay for the night before they continued on their way to Utah. “Was it her again?” 

Joel felt the chain of the locket as he rubbed the back of his neck, the only piece he had left of you. “Yeah…” He muttered lowly, “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever be.

~~~

Main Masterlist | The Last Of Us Masterlist

[cipherjuice-bioexorist]

*Steve was walking down the sidewalk, in an overly colorful jacket/pants and white button-up with, obviously, his tie and hat.*

*Checking his watch, he realized he was late to meet his client. Whatever. His client was desperate, and before Steve could even get to a phone booth to reschedule with this guy (really needed to get used to the concept of time, now) he sees something out of the corner of his eye.*

*Looking across the street, across the road, he sees some guy running from a bunch of bigger guys. Who was this guy, a nut job? Running isn't gonna get him anywhere from men like that, what an— ...*

*Wait a dang second.*

*Is that.*

Oh my hypnosis, it's BEETLE! *Steve's eye widens, and with a snap, his suitcase pops out of existence, and he immediately teleports a little bit ahead of where Beetle was supposed to be. He grabs Beetle, pulling him in an alley. Those suited men definitely saw them go in, but it gave Steve enough time (eesh, time was annoying to get used to) to give a quick lookover Beetle. And. Well. As Steve expected, he looked like... well, he looked BAD.*

Yeesh, pal! Sure know how to get yourself into trouble, huh? isn't gonna be an easy fight, is it... *He sighs.* oh well! I can try and act peacefully! *He smiles, turning to the men entering the alley.*

@imthebestcharacter618

*beetle looked like a mess. His eye was partly blood shot, he was bleeding from his head, his mannequin was cracking apart and breaking. He had taken quite the beating. Not only that, he had seemingly broken out of some type of bond, as there was metal cable still roped around one of his wrists* i- *he could barely form words* I can take care of myself-

*the men came into the alley. Mobsters, seemingly*

"oil, 70s, give him ta us. We just need ta talk to him" *new york accent too? What was beetle, in the Godfather?*

[blu3-ja3]

Civilian clothing? Absolutely and a little Treat as well! Enjoy Lovelies!

O'Connor: Long sleeves and covered neck always, even when hot. Shes insecure about her burn scar and has enough people staring at her for a lifetime. On a very rare occasion does she wear short sleeves and it's ONLY with the 141 around. She likes rich jewel tones and soft fabrics, if it's textured it feels horrible on her skin or it's too tight on her skin, she hates how it makes her scar feels when rubbing against it. She likes silver jewelry and simple makeup, a bit of gloss and her eyes (shadow, liner, cute wing, and mascara) her nails are always painted whatever colors the sergeants pick. A skirt with nice tights or leggings and a cute boot? Yes. A nice pair of jeans with a cute belt and her old black combat boots, classic. Her hair is up, braided, ponytail, bun or beanie. It's only when she goes somewhere nice does she have it down. Her bag always has her knife, a bandana, and a hair tie along with her phone and wallet.

Price: Lumberjack, lots of well fitting flannels and cable knit short sleeve polos. Nice slacks or jeans with nice combat boots and a well kept leather belt. Nice wrist watch that was a gift from Ghost. Bucket hat that matches his flannels color, he originally only had two but Gaz found a color matched bucket hat for each shirt the man had. He didn't wear them at first but eventually indulged his partner. His beard is always well manicured and trimmed.

Ghost: Mans is unironically fashionable and only wears black. Wears long and short sleeve button ups they're all perfectly tight and hugs his chest and arms well. Soap makes sure of that. Nice jeans or slacks with a black and silver belt and his well worn combat boots. Silver wrist watch, chain necklace, and rings, with black nails. He keeps a face mask on and most times wears a beanie so his eyes and the makeup on them are the only thing seen. There's a difference between Ghost doing his eyes and Soap doing his eyes. Ghost's makeup is what he always does, smeared black nothing fancy. Soap's is intricate with liner and designs, it's still chaotic but in a beautiful way, it's perfect for Ghost.

Gaz: Fashion king, everything he wears is color coordinated with Price. Sweaters with knitted designs or embroidery over a white or black collared shirt. Well tailored black or brown slacks or jeans with a belt to match the sweater main color. Nice pair of chucks customized for Gaz by Soap as a birthday present. Lots of silver jewelry and accessories out the ass.

Roach: Nice acid washed jeans and graphic tees under an unbuttoned flannel. Nice pair of vans and goofy mismatched socks. Patterned belts, multi colored beanies, and chipped nail polish. He keeps his skateboard on him and walks around with his dog Ripley.

Soap: Punk Soap? Punk Soap... Why else the goofy hair cut? He's got a custom leather jacket with hand made patches, studs, and spikes. Graphic or band tees with ripped jeans or colored checkered pants. Well worn black combat boots with custom design embroidery. Chocker with a little ghost charm, rings and layered necklace and bracelets, as well as tongue and ear piercings. Will sometimes wears fake nose and lip piercing jewelry. Nail polish and eye makeup that matches his outfit, wears black lipstick sometimes it drives Ghost crazy.

Lil Treat height and ethnicity ( I think that what its called but idk I'm not smart)

THEY'RE ALL BRITISH ARMY!

Ghost: 6'7" (British Dad/German Mom)

O'Connor: 6'5" (Irish Mom/Scottish Dad)

Price: 6'4" (Both British Parents)

Gaz: 6'2" (Swahili Mom/British Dad)

Roach: 5'9" (British Mom/Jewish Brit Dad)

Soap: 5'7" (Both Scottish Parents)

COD Master List

[simpingforcys]

OH, I ASKED THIS ONCE BEFORE, BUT I WILL ASK AGAIN, what's your favorite thing about turbo/king candy

I'm answering this in the late ass time of night but it's the perfect time let's gooo

I. Love. Everything. About. This. Man. I love him so so much. His style, his laugh, his voice, UGH HIS VOICE, movements, goofyness silly, racing, the JOY he takes in everything he does, his SILLY GOOFYNESS AAAAA, the way his crown always stays on his head no matter what, the BOUNCYness of his body at the smallest movement like a jelly, his adorable self, his UNHINGED SELF, the hint of growl in his voice talking about his possession of the game, his effortless and overall LOVE for racing, his eyes constricting/become smaller when he's absolutely pissed tf off, the authority persona he can pull off even in his short ass 3"0 self still so imposing (pant pant), the little patting he does to sour bill like pls my king do to me pls, the manipulative lil SHIT, but he's an entertaining manipulative lil shit, the way he so effortlessly lies through his teeth and makes it believable, the way he can make others do what he wants on just words alone without the need of force cuz he KNOWS physically he can't do SHIT and I fucking LOVE silver tongue characters HHHHHHHHH, speaking of- that tongue THO?? boy what that DO, that lisp I find so so hot just hhhh sir how dare you, I love the sparkles that always just follow him, on his clothes, his kart, his throne, just ALL of him, the way he just HAS FUN with everything he does (not even MENTIONING THE CYBUG EVERYTHING), the added helmet and gloves when he's racing that even Turbo didn't use??? the bow tie twirl it does when he's surprised, he MUST have coded that in, and oh- KNOWING HOW TO FKING CODE, whether someone told him or he learned on his own, being able to manipulative an entire world for YOU, creating a new model/body for himself, like it's TERRIFYING to know your entire existence and even YOUR OWN MIND can be manipulated from a couple of cables just below you and he fully took advantage of that, I love everything of his design, the purple sparkling coat, the candy wrapper bow tie, the heart designed hand cuffs, candy cane neck collar, the POOFY pants<3333, the crown with the balls that look like Ferrero Rocher chocolates, the chocolate dipped design, his jellybean nose<333 my second favorite candy, the purple eye shadow he looks so hot with and add to his for some reason constant bedroom eyes look, the rosy blushy cheeks that perk up when he smiles and giggles, the bushy eyes rows that make him SO expressive with every emotion EVEN WHEN THEYRE OFF COLOR SO OFTEN IN HIS MERCH DEPENDING ON WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE THAT DAY, his smile lines that curve with every smile, how soft his face, skin and lips look and bet they would feel just LOOK, the way his lips sometimes go expressive on the 'ooh's sounds so cartoony but also make me wanna kiss him so much, how soft his hands look even with finger nails cuz of course gotta look chibi and cartoony in the new game, the way he MOVES around with the microphone, TOTAL show off man built for the spotlight, beautiful perfect host like imagine a GAME SHOW WITH HIM AS HOST?? the little hip sway when he closes the door of his kart, the way he dives into his collar when he dodges down so CUTELY, his silly name puns and candy phrases that even pass on to the magic kingdoms game, so on point,

the two tail coats behind him that HONESTLY WORK SO WELL with the later dual cerci tails in his cybug form like a foreshadow, the little button behind his jacket that looks like a Mario coin (and I haven't looked at a picture of him since I opened this ask, this is just by memory he's just Aaaaaaa), the whole white chocolate design aesthetic with his royal racer kart and honestly himself too with the inner shirt, the fact that his "fans" are POPCORN, LIKE THAT'S NOT A CANDY but they're still there even tho like yeah animal crackers aren't candy either BUT ITS SO FUNNY to think Turbo went "I need my own little 'crowd' to fit in with the other racers, uh uh, POPCORN, yeah that was popular in the 80s", the fact he let his jealousy, vain and possessiveness for control get to him to destroy an entire game, like I fully believe he would PHYSICALLY PERSONALLY unplug a game if he could, I just love him so so much, Alan Tudyk, you did amazing with him, I genuinely can not see anyone else that would of taken him and made him AS GOOD AND ICONIC as he did, I just love him so so much, I adore him, I need him, I adore him, and I know it's gone so far when I found myself saying "I would let the world burn for this man," if he told me he hated another game and wanted it gone, disappeared, killing his competition, I would do it for him, anything to have him with me still. I adore everything about him.

And I haven't even gotten to TURBO since he got 24 SECONDS OF 3D SCREEN TIME (YES I COUNTED AND TIMED).

what was the question? oh favorite thing?

I'm very big on voices. so. voice. voice

[dustandembers]

LOV AND FASHION

𓏵

SHIGARAKI:

His choice in clothes is the simplest—T-shirt and jeans with whatever sneakers.

As ordinary as it may sound, the possibilities are endless! But, this is Shigaraki and he’s not overly experimental with his style.

Though, every now and again he’s inspired to do a little something more with his outfits. He borrows some ideas from street wear with an emo / gothic touch.

When he’s feeling particularly dressy, he likes to wear cuff earrings. Especially ones with a dangle chain.

TOGA:

Even though she admires Gyaru, she can’t really do the more embellished outfits due to having no money but also it’ll be an inconvenience if she ever has to fight on a moment’s notice.

She settles for Kogal— you’re already more than halfway there with just a sailor uniform.

Her favorite accessories are huge, puffy scrunchie bracelets, pearl barrettes and enamel pins that she’ll pierce into her cardigans.

DABI:

Of course, he’s about the goth aesthetic.

Though, he leans more into visual kei.

He’s into jewelry— especially in the color of silver or gun metal.

He owns simple rings that aren’t too flashy on their own. Just metal bands on his pinky and ring fingers. Sometimes, he would have a flashier, edgier one that sits around his middle finger (he’d set the metal bands aside whenever he does).

I’m tempted to say he had highlights in his hair at some point.

MR. COMPRESS:

He’s “casual fancy”. Like, there’s an aura of fine taste that doesn’t take itself so seriously.

A rosé wristwatch and cable knit sweater with his hair swept away from his face— a nice cologne, too. Something spicy, like cinnamon.

Probably does that thing where he’ll carry around a suit jacket but only to have it hoisted over his shoulder.

TWICE:

He’s rather classy, actually. He does try his best to appear somewhat crisp and clean.

A white button-up shirt with short sleeves and dress pants. Sometimes he’d throw on a funky tie to be fun.

He would also adorn his pinky or thumb with a chunky ring.

SPINNER:

He definitely leans into his geekiness— if he is a fan of something, he’d find a way to showcase it somewhere on his body.

Even if it’s just a subtle reference, kinda like those character bracelets that feature an identifiable color scheme along with pendants of objects that are associated with them.

He’s into the band tee over a long sleeved shirt style and baggy pants look. And leather bracelets, too.

[corvuserpens]

A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails fanfic} - Ch. 7 (Part 3)

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: None Characters: Billy Bones, Hal Gates, James Flint, Jean DuBois, protagonist OC, supporting OCs Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Max/OC (friends), Jean duBois/OC (bffs), James Flint/OC (mentor) Additional tags: Original character-centric, first person POV, canon character x original character romance, self-discovery journey, kinda alternative prequel to canon, canon compliant, slow burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting sweetness, cute but also sexy, angst galore, found family, Hal Gates has two children now, canon typical violence Series: Part One of Six of A Girl, An Ocean Chapters: 7/13 Summary: Having had a near-death experience, Constance thought she had moved on from it without a scratch - but psychological wounds are much harder to heal than she had anticipated.

Author's note: I don't want to say it's PTSD, but it kind of is. What might surprise you is who will help Constance overcome her new fear.

Chapter vii. Part iii.

Leaving Nassau behind was harder than I had anticipated.

As the Walrus sailed out from the bay toward the lilac grey horizon, I looked back from my post at the fife rail and felt a longing grip my heart, this painful need to go back. We hadn't even moved two hundred yards from the island and I already missed it. Months would go by before we saw land again, and though I loved the sea and sailing, a piece of my soul remained behind, with the colorful streets and those insane islanders, their chaos, their utter freedom and shameless joy.

"Constance!" Folsom snapped me out of it with a smack on the back of my head. "Wake up. Tie those knots properly before the fucking sail tears."

"Sorry." I twisted the rope around the fife and tied it off securely, like he'd taught me, then moved to the next, checking each cable one by one to make sure they were all held fast. "All ropes are secured."

"Come along, then." He gestured for me to follow him to the main mast's larside shroud. "I need another set of hands to unfurl the t'gallants. For some goddamn reason, they didn't deploy as they should."

"Weren't you supposed to make sure that didn't happen, Master Rigger?" I teased while he started to climb.

"Fuck off, I did!... Rigging probably got stuck on something after replacement and I missed it. That's all."

"You better pray that neither Flint nor Gates noticed it." I grabbed onto the shroud, jumped on the rail and prepared to follow him.

I had climbed to the very top of the mast dozens, maybe hundreds of times since I had joined. It was a scary experience for the uninitiated, but one got used to not thinking about how high they were and how falling from such heights meant certain death. One learned to trust their own body to keep them safely held to ropes and the mast while suspended.

But as I began my ascent and casually looked down, my brain... froze.

Suddenly, all I could think about was the incident. The memory of hanging from the footrope, several feet in the air with nothing to keep me from falling and crushing my skull on the ground overwhelmed me to the point my hands wet sore from how tightly I squeezed the rat lines. I stared at the floorboards not ten meters from me and couldn't will my body to move.

Panic built up in my gut, spread through my limbs like fire on oil. Even if I fell in that moment, the worst that might happen was my knees would hurt; and yet, there I was, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

I couldn't understand what was going on. Why was I so scared all of a sudden? It was ridiculous!... But there was no denying that my breath had become shallow and agonizing. My whole body had gone numb. Cold sweat formed under my armpits and back. Not matter how I forced myself not to think about it, I couldn't shake away the abject fear I had felt that day and which seized me now.

"Constance!" Folsom shouted again. "The fuck's wrong with you? Hurry up!"

I leaned back my head to look up, mad with terror. He was pissed at me - until when he saw my face. Then his eyes went wide with realization.

The thought of climbing to the t'gallants became the most frightening thing I had ever imagined. They were so far high, and all it took was one slip. What if this time no one got to me? What if I fell before getting rescued? Shit, this was no good. A pirate who couldn't climb the masts was useless. They would vote me out of the crew before the day was through.

My panic doubled and robbed me of all reason. I glanced back down and I swear the deck was sinking away from me, making it appear that I was higher than I actually was. A tiny scream escaped my lips as I forced my eyes shut.

It's just an illusion caused by fear, I tried to convince myself. Just an illusion, it's not real.

"Oy, Billy!" I heard Folsom call out with urgency before he produced a sharp whistle. "Billy, Gates! Give me a hand here!"

Two pairs of boots pounded towards us as I felt the shroud quiver in my hands. By then, fear had sunk its claws in me completely. I wrapped one arm around the rat lines, the other around the frame, and held on like my life depended on it.

A hand settled on my shoulder, but I couldn't open my eyes or move an inch. I couldn't. I was totally convinced that if I did, I was dead.

"Constance, breathe," Folsom told me with shocking kindness, so uncharacteristic of him. "I know you're frightened, but you have to breathe."

"What happened?" Mr. Gates yelled up.

I yelped and held harder to the lines when the shroud shook violently.

"I don't know, we started climbing and she froze. Leftover residues from the incident, no doubt."

"Constance?" Billy's voice was right next to my ear. "I'm going to put my arm around your waist, is that alright?"

I couldn't bring myself to talk or even look at him, but I nodded to let him know I had heard him. His arm snaked around my side, pressed to my front and held my back against him.

"Now listen to me." His voice sounded calm, but there was an underlying tension there that somehow helped me focus. "We're going to climb down together and go back to the deck. It's only a couple of steps, yeah? No big deal."

I shook my head. "I don't... I don't think I can," I whimpered, hating the high pitch string that I hardly recognized as my own voice.

"Yes, you can. You willingly boarded a pirate ship and survived an unfair, brutal fist fight with a bloodthirsty bastard known as Cutthroat Fred. You're the bravest woman I know. You can get out of this, too."

I certainly didn't feel very brave, yet hearing Billy say I was gave the strength to at least suck in a breath and recover my senses a little. I had to find a way to force my limbs to move. The feeling of his big body all around me reminded me of his daring rescue and how he had gotten me down safely.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I became aware this was the second instance that he would be helping me descend from somewhere, which would have made me laugh if it weren't so pathetic and I wasn't so frightened. He would never let me fall, though. Not on that beach and not here, now.

I nodded a couple of times and slowly released my grip from the rat lines.

"That's it," he told me, his tone smooth as velvet and just as soothing. "I'm right here with you. Keep your eyes closed. Can you feel my right foot next to yours?"

I felt it, ankle with ankle. "Y-yes..."

"Follow my lead, then. Bring it down slowly, slowly..."

He guided my foot down to the next rat line, always keeping his hand on my midriff so I would know he was right there. Step by step, we descended from the shroud until my toes felt the wood of the railing. Only then did I dare open my eyes.

Jean and Mr. Gates were already there, hands stretched out to help me. Half the crew had assembled to see what was going on, their eyes following my every move from everywhere on the ship, whether it was from the deck, the high and forecastle or the masts. I could feel the weight of their judgement. Again? This girl is such a wimp. She's not cut out for this. She doesn't belong here.

None of my past accomplishments mattered. None of my sacrifices or efforts mattered. Twice now I found myself in a situation where I needed saving like some helpless damsel, all within weeks. They would see me as weak, not good enough to remain in the crew, and that was all that mattered in their opinion.

With my head hung low so that my hair concealed my shame, I accepted the help offered to me and dropped on the deck. Pride compelled me to let go as soon as my feet landed on the floorboards, but I underestimated how out of wits the panic had left me and had to set a hand on the railing to stay upright. Jean and Gates rushed to my aid and I recoiled.

"I'm fine," I snapped quietly.

A heavy silence hovered on the ship. Somehow, it was far worse than if the men had mocked and scorned me for my shortcomings. I didn't know what the hell had come over me... but the damage was done.

Tears stung my eyes as a different kind of panic gripped my throat. I could feel a sob surging up from my lungs. God, maybe I really was as weak as they thought. Why did I have to be such a girl...?

"Constance..." Jean's soft voice pierced the silence like a gunshot. "Are you al--"

I shoved away from the railing and marched past him toward the hatch by the helm. The men opened a path to let me pass and I couldn't look a single one of them in the eye. Heartbroken and utterly humiliated, I ran downstairs to the gun deck, opened the door to the empty sickbay and slammed it shut just as the tears began to spill. Then, I slid down against the door, hugged my knees and cried into my arms.

*** It was well past three bells in the afternoon watch when someone knocked on the door, looking for me. I didn't speak up in hopes that whoever it was would assume there was no one in the sickbay and leave to go search elsewhere.

I hadn't moved from my spot against the door except to stretch out my legs. After I had calmed down, I felt embarrassed by my behavior up there. If I had made a joke about it all, wrote it off as leftover frights from my brush with death, like Folsom said, I could have at least made it seem like it was a one-time thing and nothing more. Running away was as good as a declaration that I was indeed deeply affected from the incident and wasn't strong enough to just push through it.

Now, I didn't have the guts to face them. I didn't even have the guts to let Jean, or de Groot, or Billy see me crying and vulnerable. Yet, I knew I couldn't hole up in the sickbay forever. I didn't know what to do.

Another knock on the door, this time more insistent. I wiped my cheeks and remained quiet.

That was when the most unlikely of voices spoke up from the other side.

"I know you're in there," said Captain Flint. "We've searched the entirety of the ship and found no sign of you. You have nowhere left to hide. Would you kindly open the door, please?"

Billy I could deny. Even Gates I could deny. Flint I couldn't.

Fearful and out of alternatives, I pushed up to my feet, dried my eyes as best as I could and I opened the sickbay door.

Flint's intense gaze found mine. His face was unreadable, except for the strictness of his tensed brow. I couldn't handle staring at him for more than a couple of seconds, so I dropped my chin and looked at my feet, arms crossed tight over my chest.

"Captain," I croaked.

"Let us talk in my cabin," he told me. "Come."

He started to walk away and I followed reluctantly. Thank heavens we didn't pass by anyone on the way to the captain's quarters. When we got there, he held the door open for me, then shut it with an ominous sound that seemed to spell my doom.

"Sit." He commanded while taking his seat behind the desk. I occupied the chair across from him, always keeping my eyes down and my arms crossed.

The sound of porcelain scrapping on wood and the flowery perfume of herbal tea made me look up with curiosity; Flint had pushed a plate of biscuits and a steaming cup in my direction. I glanced at him briefly and grabbed a biscuit out of politeness to give it a tiny bite. I was not hungry at all. The crumbs were like sand on my sticky tongue.

"Are you alright?" He asked. The impression that question gave me coming out of Flint's mouth was that he was also doing it out of courtesy, not because of any particular concern for my welfare.

"Fine, sir." Was my automatic reply. I wished he would go straight to the point and tell me I was out, that they were turning around as we spoke to drop me off on Nassau before leaving for good. Dragging out the issue was an unnecessary torture.

"Have some tea, Miss Tilly," he offered. "It will help."

I twisted my mouth in a bitter grimace but obeyed. I blew out the cloud of steam and took a sip. It was good tea; my guess was he had put some sugar in it, for the flavor was delicately balanced. This didn't surprise me. I had seen the books on the shelf and the commodities in the cabin, and it was enough to tell me our captain had sophisticated tastes. I drank some more, but unfortunately even excellent tea wasn't enough to lift my spirits.

"Is it good?" He asked. "I took the liberty to add a sugar cube, but if you prefer it straight--"

"All due respect, captain--" I interrupted as I put the cup and biscuit back. "I'm not the sort of person who enjoys walking on eggshells and ignore a problem. I know what you are about to tell me and if it's all the same to you, I would rather get past that as quickly as possible. If it would not offend." I added, hunched in submission.

Flint hummed, leaned back on his chair with his fingers crossed over his belt. "And what is it that you think that I am about to tell you?"

I swallowed hard and pouted. "That you are going to expel me from the crew and leave me in town. The men think I'm too weak and useless to remain and will pressure you into letting me go or vote me out in case you don't. I understand. It's... it's alright."

I used my sleeve to dry the fresh tears from my eyes. Fuck, I really was pathetic. What had I been thinking, joining a pirate crew? I really must have been insane.

A moment of silence passed while Flint poured himself a cup from a handpainted porcelain kettle and added a cube before stirring. For such a rough looking man, his movements were surprisingly delicate and dextrous, the kind of practiced mannerisms I had seen from men of high society. Was he high born, perhaps? I had a hard time believing that, for some reason. How could a lord consider leaving the comforts and influence of high society to become a pirate captain?

But then I remembered where I had come from and hit myself mentally for my own stupidity. How, indeed.

Still... My reasoning was that, no matter how high born I was, I was still limited in what I could do and that's what led me to rebel and run away. Men, especially powerful ones, had all the freedom. They could do whatever they wanted and no one would bat an eye or raise a question. The higher up they were, the more true this was. He must have done something truly terrible or suffered some great loss to fall from grace.

Flint blew on his tea and took a sip before he spoke again. "Miss Tilly, do you remember what you told me the first time we met?"

I shrugged my shoulders with a snuff. "I don't know... some bullshit about wanting something different out of my life instead of what society had planned for me."

"I believe your precise words were that you didn't choose that. This was your choice, dangerous and ludicrous as it seemed. Do you know how many women have the kind of courage you had, abandoning everything they know for the unknown, risking potential death for the chance of something better?"

"It wasn't worth it, was it?" I mumbled. "You're sending me off anyway, aren't you?"

"We have plenty of useless men aboard this ship. You know this and so do I. Do you see me sending them away?"

I rolled my eyes and finally looked at him regardless of swollen and red they were.

"You know it's different for me, sir. It's always different for me. Women aren't supposed to be on ships, remember? It's bad luck. And after today, after what happened on that beach, I've proven them right. Cutthroat Fred wasn't the only one who thought so and he had friends who shared those views. They're no doubt spreading the word that I shouldn't be allowed to stay, and the rest will listen and join their side. They could all be useless dimwits, but nothing bands men together quite like ganging up on a woman."

"You give them so little credit, not to mention yourself." Flint leaned over the desk and pinned me with a harsh look that made me shudder.

"Those men out there have eyes, you know? They can see what a hard-working, dedicated person you are. They saw the way you fought against Cutthroat Fred, and more importantly than that, they saw how little you cared about your own injuries or how much you were hurting when you refused to stay in bed after two days and insisted on going back to work with the rest of them. And let's not forget you too have friends among the crew. You proved to them you are merciful and will hold no grudges after the trial, when you had every reason to. You proved to them that you were worthy of their loyalty. Do you truly think that counts for nothing?"

I thought it didn't. Flint himself had warned me I had to pull my own weight and defend myself. I had failed in both. What reason did they have to argue for my staying?

"After you stormed out of the deck, do you know what the men did? They turned to Gates and fought for you. They defended you. Jean, de Groot, Bjorn, Folsom, Thierry... the list goes on. They feared Gates would advise me to cut you lose and interceded on your behalf."

I stared at him, perplexed. They had... they had argued in my favor? No, certainly not. It must be a mistake. "But... they saw me freeze on the shrouds. They saw how scared I was. If I can't even climb the masts, what good am I on a ship?"

"My dear, the majority of those men can't even swim." A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What the fuck makes you think they would care that you're afraid of heights? Climbing the masts and tending the sails is what the riggers are for. You're a deckhand. There are plenty of other jobs you can do on the ship, all of them equally important. You've already demonstrated you can do any of them, so why are you so upset about not being able to climb the masts?"

I opened my mouth to counter-argue, but... found no compelling point. So I closed it again and fiddled with the strap of my leather bracelet.

When he put it that way... It did help lift some of the weight in my chest. "So... So you're not sending me away, sir?"

"Of course I'm not sending you away. You're not the kind of sailor to be wasted over something so small. Now, do me a favor and finish your tea so we can move on to our next order of business: what happened on that deck. Care to tell me what went through your head?"

I took back the cup of tea and explained as succinctly as I could in between sips. Flint listened without a word. his eyes to the side in deep thought. By the time I finished my recap, I felt infinitely better. Flint didn't judge me or reproach me for my lack of courage. He only listened.

He scratched at his beard and returned his gaze to mine. "This isn't the first time I've heard of someone suddenly developing an irrational fear after a traumatic event. It's quite common among soldiers, in fact. And you're far from being the first pirate to be afraid of heights. Quite a few of our crew are, too."

That was certainly a relief, though it still bothered me. "Is there no way to combat it, sir?"

I didn't like the idea of letting fear dictate what I could or couldn't do. I had never allowed it to influence me before and I wasn't about to start now, not if there was a chance I could beat it.

"There is," he nodded. "You confront it. Understand that, once fear sinks its claws into you, it will never disappear. From this day forward, it is highly likely you will always be afraid to climb the masts and man the sails or the rigging. It will always tuck itself in the darkest corners of your mind, ready to strike when you least expect it. But if you invite out, accept it as something that's part of you and you allow yourself to become familiar with it, then it will never have the power to dominate you."

He made it sound so easy. Yet, at the same time, he seemed to be speaking from experience, which striked me as ridiculous. What could Captain James Flint possibly be afraid of? I had to remind myself he was just as human as I was, and therefore prone to the same weaknesses as the rest of us, not matter what shape it took.

I ate a biscuit while pondering his advice. Confronting my fear sounded reasonable. It also sounded like the scariest thing a person could put themselves through. How do you submit to fear without letting it overcome you? I had so easily been subjected to it on the shrouds.

"How do I know I won't be taken with panic, again?" I inquired in a whisper. "How do I put a leash on it if I can't even hold it back?"

"The reason it was so easy to give in to panic out there was because you weren't expecting it," he explained. "It caught you off guard. Now you know it will be there the next time you try. You know what to expect, so I believe you will be strong enough to overcome it. Being afraid isn't exactly a novelty to you, is it?”

That got me to snort. “No, it's not, sir.”

“But I will tell you a secret: fear is what keeps you alive. Panic will kill you, but fear is the thing that fuels your strength and prepares you for what you must face. Being afraid paves the way for courage. You need to be afraid in order to be brave. Otherwise, you are simply insane."

What he said made sense. Before I had boarded the Walrus, I had been afraid. Not of what might happen to me, but of what awaited me had I not escaped the HMS Delilah. It was that fear which had compelled me to act. It had been fear that had made me fight Cutthroat Fred and refuse to surrender. It had been fear that had driven me into the brothel and trust in Max to help me with my bleeding. And now, the fear of succumbing to fear itself would be what inspired me to try and climb the shroud again, and again, and again, until I wasn't afraid anymore.

I finished my tea and stood up. "Thank you for the tea and biscuits, Captain. And for your counsel. With your permission, I would like to go up to the deck and put your theory to the test, now."

Flint also stood up and walked around the desk to open the door for me. "After you."

We returned to the main deck together. Nassau had disappeared from view and the winds blew into the sails, making them billow and carry us west at about five or six knots. Every man was at their post, running back and forth on the deck or taking a quick break to smoke or have something to eat.

My presence went unnoticed, but not Flint's. The second he put a foot on deck, heads turned to greet their captain. When they saw me walking with him, they quickly spread the word until all attention was on me, which certainly added some pressure to my endeavor. Unavoidable in a ship, I supposed.

I stopped at the foremast on the port side and looked up, doing my best to ignore my audience and focus on what I was about to do instead. I could hear murmurs all around me as a few of the men approached to take a better look. From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Gates and Mr. de Groot come over to stand next to Flint. I also noticed Bjorn's barrel shaped torso, as well as Billy's towering figure.

No one spoke to me as I grasped the shroud with one hand and jumped onto the railing. Instantly, my heart rate sped up and my stomach tensed up. My vision began to swim and distort, again making it seem as if the floor was sinking away from me.

I searched for Flint's face and found him staring back, hands behind his back, eyes squinted from the sun. It was barely perceptible, but I swear he nodded at me for encouragement.

Holding onto the rat lines with both hands, I closed my eyes. Fear stirred and uncoiled like a sleeping dragon in my gut, ready to burn me from the inside out. But this time, I looked it straight in the eyes and thought: no. I won't let you defeat me. Be gone.

And to my utter surprise... it worked. With slow, deep breaths, one after the other, I willed that beast into submission. My eyes cracked open and observed that everything was normal. The deck floor was only a hop away. The panic and dizziness that had threatened to take over moments before subsided into a manageable discomfort. I didn't wait for it to gain strength again; I started to climb.

I kept my focus on my prize - to reach the main sail platform - and refused to look down. One hand over the other, step by step, I worked my way slower than usual, but with confidence. Before I knew it, I reached the platform and took a seat on it with my feet dangling out. I closed my eyes with a sigh, took a deep breath and glanced down. It was still scary how high it was, and it still made me my head slosh around with a primal fear, but seeing the smiling faces of my crewmen filled my soul with relief. I held out a hand with a thumb up and chuckled when they clapped for me.

After a minute or two of rest, I looked up to the top sail platform. Would I be brave enough to get there? Or should I leave it for another day?

Two riggers were up there, looking down at me expectantly. I recognized one as an Irishman named O'Neill; the other, I didn't know his name, though I remembered seeing his face around the ship, as he was one of the few Mughals on the crew. He waved a hand over, beckoning me up.

Alright, why not?

One more breath and I stood on the platform, hands on the mast for some added support against the stronger gusts of wind. I shuffled over to the next shroud and hung from it, doing exactly as I had done on the previous: eyes on the prize and don't look down. When I began the ascent, far below me I heard my crew mates cheering me on.

"You're doing great, Constance!" Jean shouted.

"Almost there, girl, almost there!" Dooley barked.

"Don't overdo yourself, you've gone far enough already," Billy advised.

"She can do it, I'll bet ten pieces on it!" Muldoon laughed.

And so the bets were made. Some thought I wouldn't go past the top sail; others said I would go to the very top, reaching the t'gallants. A few bet that I would choke on the descent. Either way, I tuned them out and concentrated on O'Neill and the other rigger. I was halfway up when they reached out their hands, offering me aid up.

"Just a little more," the Mughal man said.

I though I really should learn his name, so I called: "Oi! What's your name?"

The man chuckled. "Sayeed. Nice to officially meet you, Constance."

"Aw, not fair. You already know my name!" I got to the platform and held onto Sayeed's hand to let him pull me up and sit by his side.

"You're the only woman aboard," O'Neill pointed out. "Everybody knows your name."

I paused, then shrugged one shoulder. "Alright, I'll give you that." Then I let my gaze roam the horizon and saw deep blue sea stretch out to the ends of the earth, and had to smile. It was so beautiful up there. Well worth the risk and the fear.

I turned to Sayeed and had this feeling his name was familiar. Sayeed... Sayeed... Where had I heard it before...?

The smell of the curry I'd had while I was sick jogged my memory. “Oh, you're Sayeed! You made me curry when I was sick!”

“That was I, yes,” he confirmed with a satisfied grin. “Billy told me you enjoyed it. I'm glad.”

“Enjoyed it? I was in bloody heaven for it. Never thought I would eat curry in Nassau. It was exactly what I needed to get better. Thank you so much, Sayeed.”

"You're very welcome. And whenever you're in the mood for it, just let me know, aye?”

“Don't say that,” I snorted. “I might feel tempted to ask you all the time.”

He laughed warmly at that and we sat together a little while longer. Behind me, O'Neill adjusted the rigging, then leaned on the mast with his arms crossed, enjoying the view, too. Unfortunately, none of us could sit there forever. We had work to do.

“Ready to go up to the t'gallants?" Sayeed teased.

I glanced up and grimaced. It was so close, but... when I looked back down, I felt a shudder run up and down my body. I could hardly make out the faces of the men below. The gales up on the top sail were much stronger than on the platform below, whipping my hair and clothes about. My stomach did a flip and I had to focus again on the horizon until my quickened breath calmed down.

"I think I'm good for now, actually."

O'Neill gave my back a gentle pat. "No shame in that. Another time."

I swallowed hard and looked at the shroud next to my foot, so perilously narrow. "Now, would you mind keeping a hand on my coat while I get back on the lines...? Just in case?"

O'Neill snorted and took a firm grasp on my shoulder. "No problem."

It wasn't like they were actively helping me. If I fell, I doubt they would be able to hold me up and save me. Even so, just the feeling of their hands on me as I carefully positioned myself to climb down was like a balm that kept my head under control so I could focus on my feet and hands. Now I had to look down to see where I was going, so I tried to keep my eyes either on my feet or on the platform below, never letting them go past them.

At last, I stepped on the platform and let out a heavy huff of relief. I could hear the others cheering me on again, but it was not over yet.

"One step at a time," I chanted quietly to myself. The panic was always in my gut, like Flint had told me, the dragon fully awake and prowling around, keeping a close watch for a moment of weakness so it could pounce. But I was keeping it under watch, too. Whenever I felt in danger of losing control, I would stop, take a few more breaths while pinning my eyes on the horizon, then proceed. My progress was slow, I was aware of that, but in this instance, it didn't matter how long it took, only that I maintained it to the end.

After having been much higher up, when I waved down at the others, I didn't feel as queasy. This really wasn't so bad; I could still die or break something if I fell, yet for some reason... the dragon of fear seemed to have given up and curled into a ball again to sleep until the next opportunity. I got on the main sail shroud and practically slid down.

When I jumped on deck, I was received with pats on the back and a hug from Jean and Bjorn. I felt so proud and accomplished from the way they reacted, even though all I did was just climb up and down the mast, nothing more.

Mr. Gates came forth and also pulled me into a quick hug, laughing from deep within his gut, truly satisfied. "You really are a force to reckon with, aren't you?"

Blushing fiercely, I ducked my head and chuckled while tucking my hair behind an ear. "It's all thanks to you. All of you."

I turned in a circle to take in all the faces I knew, all my friends and all the men whom, although I didn't know as well, I also trusted with my life. I had discovered I was brave by myself, but every one of them had taught me valuable lessons in comradery, guided me through this life and set an example for me to follow. I wouldn't have had the courage to try what I just had so soon after finding out how much it terrified, if it weren't for their faith in me.

“Captain Flint told me what you did for me after I left this morning,” I told them. “And... I want you all to know how touched I am by it. How grateful. And not just today - every time I was in trouble or going through a low point, you have been there for me again and again, and I hope from the bottom of my heart I may one day pay you all back with interest. Thank you, everyone. Truly. I couldn't ask for a better crew than this, or a better band of brothers."

"Aw, shucks, Constance." Muldoon wiped an invisible tear from his eye. "You're giving us all the weepies, here! We have a reputation to uphold!"

We all laughed loud and good, even the riggers hanging from the shrouds above us.

"Forgive me." I held my hands up in mock defeat, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. "I promise this was a one time thing only. I also got a reputation to maintain, goddammit."

"Fuckin' right, you do!" Folsom yelled somewhere from the back. "Quit being a sensitive tart, it's contagious! I can feel my eyes sting and everything, already."

"Or maybe you were just born a pussy, Folsom!" O'Neill shouted from the mast, getting another bout of laughs from the rest of the crew.

"I suppose you would know how to recognize them, wouldn't you, ya queer bastard?" Folsom retorted as he pushed his way through the crowd to climb towards the other. "Have you fixed those t'gallants already, you shit whipper? You'd better, or Luca will have to look for someone else to keep him warm at night after I cut off your balls!"

"Alright, everyone back to work!" Gates barked. "Enough distractions, we have a ship to steer and manage and you're not getting paid to laze about all fucking day."

The men scurried back to their posts, with some of them patting my shoulders and back as they passed me by. Before I found some useful employment though, I made my way to Flint and tilted down my head.

"Captain? I just wanted to thank you personally. For giving me the strength I needed and... And for taking a chance on me, weeks ago."

Flint observed me from the top of his nose with a half smile, then he also tilted down his scruffy chin so we were at eye level with each other. "No need. I'm sure you will prove yourself quite the asset in the future, with a little more guidance."

"I hope so, sir." I told him sincerely.

He kicked his head to the right and clicked his tongue. "Go on. I hear they were needing an extra pair of hands below cleaning up the guns."

"Aye, sir." I rushed past him to the hatch and made my way below decks, feeling satisfied, competent and proud of myself and my achievements. In that moment, I felt as if I could take on anything and anyone, that nothing would bring me down or break my spirit.

Little did I know that, a week from then, I would face my most harrowing trial yet... and it would leave a scar in my heart that would never heal.

[tiredghostness]

I have some questions for yan

What would it look like if yan met chang’e?

Does she like bunnies?

What’s her favorite color?

What is her opinion on the samadhi fire?

Who is her favorite member of the gang?

Does she like the snow?

okay, lets answer these one b one

What would it look like if yan met chang’e?

Yan became a fan of Chang'e by watching her with DBK and Red Son. i doubt the family would use streaming services, but cabled tvs. so she stays up and watches Cooking With Chang'E. once she finally meets her (possibly by tagging along with mk , pigsy and swk), Yan will be extatic and try her best to contain her exitement.

Does she like bunnies?

yea, she does probably. i mean if you do like Chang'e, then you'd want a pet rabbit. or at least a robot one though she gets the samadhi dog so all is good.

What’s her favorite color?

it might be a surprise, but she doesn't really have any favorite colors. she thinks they're all pretty. but if she has to pick its a tie between crimson red and sky blue.

What is her opinion on the samadhi fire?

she doesn't exactly like it. after witnessing it beign unleashed within Mei, Yan now truly understand the dangers it holds. it's a possibility that one of her horns beign black was because of the Samadhi Fire's remnants in PIF. but they only covered it with Carbon.

Who is her favorite member of the gang?

Sandy & Mei. Sandy helps Yan to recognize her feelings and even offer the therapy cats to help her a bit with her emotions. meanwhile Mei is basically her rich aunt lmao. she gets spoiled rotten by her.

Does she like the snow?

yea! she actually really likes playing in the snow. but she has a sad immune system to sudden changes in temperature, so she can't stay outside without a coat on at least.

[llau-ren-ti-a]

The Bad Batch Ask Game

created by @wreckers-wife

@nahoney22

First of all thanks for the message and thank you for bringing this to my attention, my asks are open now 😁

So let's get right to it!

21. Which Batcher is the best cook?

I'd love to say Hunter, but with his senses it could get difficult (hell, I consider myself a decent cook and can't prepare meat half of the time bc I can't stand the smell) so I'm going with Echo and Cross!

Echo because he actually values food that isn't 'standard rations' and has a thing for proper nutrition and Crosshair because he's a control freak in the kitchen - he won't let you lift a finger and only serves whatever meets his expectations.

38. What color do you associate with each Batcher?

That's a tough one, but I'll try my best!

Wrecker

Wrecker was the easiest to come up with, and I know, yellow is a happy colour and that's why I associate him with it bla bla bla - his scar reminds me of the sun, a star bursting across his face. He's warm summer days spent in the sun, elderflower lemonade and daisies.

When I was in school we used to play "Yellow Car", whenever you spotted a yellow car you could hit one of the fellow players, and I think he'd be weirdly competitive about that.

Omega

Omega was a close second, and my colour is turquoise! Do you know this specific shade of turquoise that every other girl's rooms had back in the 2010s? Either you knew someone who had a room like that or you were that person. I can remember that so vividly and she instantly reminded me of her so much. She'd totally be one of those girls with turquoise walls.

I'm also so sure adores the ocean and sky, aside from the storm grey she was surrounded with on Kamino.

Tech

A little conflicted about our dear Tech - he reminds me of vaporwave and 80s computers; to me he is the embodiment of 80s and 90s synthwave (aesthetic), black and neon pinks and blues and purples and oranges - it was really a tie between the latter but I went with purple, it's still quite a nice colour and I think he'd center his whole being around this colour like many purple people do. (Orange people are actually exactly the same, but they are less vocal about it haha)

Echo

Sad beige clothes for sad beige children.

Look me straight into my bright blue eyes and tell me Echo would not absolutely THRIVE in a clean, cozy minimalistic apartment. I would pay an ungodly amount of money to wrap him up in a beige silk/mohair blend cable knit sweater and watch him drink a black tea with milk and sugar while he's sitting on clean white bed sheets. Need I say more?

Hunter

(Sidenote: I am having an absolute field day imagining Hunter in one of those Park Ranger Uniform shorts)

I think the consensus is that a lot of people associate him with red (because he is the leader of the squad and their colours are black and red...)

And I get it, red and brown suit him well in my opinion, but he really is green to me. Not really sage green or dark forest green, more the yellowish chartreuse kind of swampy green.

Crosshair

I get it. I absolutely do. The angry, dangerous, even lustful dark reds and blacks that so many people pair him with.

My soul tells me he is green. Not that friendly, lively kind of green that Hunter has, but this dark and forgotten shade of ancient woods that block out the sun once you've walked a few steps into them. Kind of Twilight-esque pacific northwedt vibes, but scarier and less blue filter.

I know he would kill me if he heard me compare him to Hunter like that, but I really think they are quite alike.

The difference lies here:

Hunter invites you in, whereas Crosshair is warning you to stay away.

- - -

I hope that made some sense haha!

That was fun, thanks for the message! <3

[usafphantom2]

Pratt & Whitney J58, SR-71 engine burning up the last of the JP-7 fuel at Edwards Air Force Base.

On the evening of Thursday, Sept.12, 2002. is when this very last fuel-burning event occurred. They were ordered to get rid of the rest of the JP7 SR 71 fuel, so it was agreed…. Let’s burn it.! To experience a J58 in full burner close-up and personal is hard to describe. Picture a gigantic blow torch, 40 inches in diameter, putting out a blue-yellow-orange flame over 50 feet long. Imagine standing 30 feet from this, feeling the vibration and heat. You wear both foam plugs and earmuffs. Your ears still ring afterward, because the sound is conducted through your body. The back half of the engine transforms from dull gray to bright orange, seemingly transparent. The flame has little three-dimensional diamond-shaped shock patterns about every two feet. I lost count at 13. It is both frightening and beautiful, an amazing demonstration of perfectly controlled power. And to think - this was done with 1950s technology

Someone added the blue color and made the picture more vivid. The red glow is more realistic. That is the accurate picture. A Pratt & Whitney J58 in the test stand at Edwards AFB. Note the beefy cables and steel rods to tie this giant down. The last flight of an SR 71 was on October 9, 1999..

Look at all of those beautiful diamonds ..The sound alone would shake every molecule in your body. The heat would be ferocious. Your emotions would be undeniable, Just as if you were at a funeral for one of your best friends, because that was exactly what we were doing. Goodbye, beautiful Blackbird.

~ Linda Sheffield

Tony Landis photo

@Habubrats71 via X

[noa-nightingale]

Recent knitting successes:

learned how to do the feather and fan stitch

made this drape-y thingy that I don't know what to call with the feather and fan stitch - I will put it on top of my bookcase; it's the second I made, I gave the first one away as a gift

so, really, I should put three successes here because I made two of those feather and fan things with that type of colorful yarn

New knitting accessories I have now:

a knitting register

two cable needles

Next project:

knitting a tie

[ivoryminitower]

Seasonal Sports

Something a little different for the holiday season.

The bow sat at its usual place, high up on the lamppost, a dull red in the artificial light, slightly raggedy around the edges from the hard use to which it had been put.  Green tinsel garlands double-helixed up the lamppost to reach it.

A pair of eyes studied the bow from a bush on the other side of the sidewalk.  Perhaps more eyes watched -- the evening's contestant certainly hoped they watched -- but for the moment he could only be sure of his own.

He hoped there weren't any cats among the potential watchers.  This wasn't really a cat neighborhood, and it had gotten a bit cold for the average household prowler, but you never really knew until the claws were in your back.

Bit by bit he became visible at the base of the boxwood: a twitching nose, bright black eyes, pulled back ears, long narrow paws, a small, lean but muscular body, and a trembling tail.  He stayed very still as he took in the sights, the sounds and the smells of the night.  No apparent danger, except for the obvious, so he advanced.

Cold rough concrete under his paws...acres of it, to him, a vast distance just from the bush to the post, and seeming to stretch off to infinity on either side.  Dark at first, then gradually lightening as it, and he, got closer to the post.  He became much more distinctly a moving grey shape on the pale beige artificial stone.

Feeling with every step the inevitability of a predator's strike, or even a bumbling human striding out of the dark, he finally reached the base of the post.  He took a moment to get over his surprise, then reached up and hooked claws into the shiny tinsel.  He pulled himself up and began to climb.

It was a substantial post.  A human would require a stepladder to reach the top.  A squirrel would seem to fly up it.  A cat wouldn't bother.  A mouse, clinging desperately to the string and the colored plastic, had to follow the twists and turns of the garland around the post, making fresh decisions at each juncture.

He paused halfway up to peer at the bushes down below and the trees nearby.  Did he have an audience tonight?  Did he have peers eager to see him succeed, or at least looking to be entertained if he fell?  He wouldn't know until he got back to the nest.  If he got back.

The wind picked up as he got higher.  His small body, held close against the post by his death grip on the garland, didn't present much of a target to the wind, but it still sucked heat out of him and stung his eyes.  It had to be borne, though...there was only one time of the year that the bows appeared, and it was almost never warm.

His claws hooked into the last wrappings of garland at the top.  He paused for a breather, and risked a glance downward.  It was many, many times the size of his body to the ground.  He knew he was going down again...he just had to make sure it would be slowly.

Tearing his gaze from the down, he looked up at his objective.  He had to climb up just a little further and get through whatever was holding the bow on.  At first it had simply been more ribbon, but with successive contestants the bow had been held up by more and more substantial means -- tape and string and stronger ribbon, and even a hard plastic cord that a mouse wouldn't recognize as an electronics cable tie.  He'd heard that had taken a lot of chewing, but wasn't impossible to get through.  He wondered if that's what he would be facing tonight.

No.  This time it was wire.  Whatever human had the job of repositioning the bow every morning had apparently decided to up the ante.

The contestant contemplated the wire, tested it with his teeth.  It gleamed wickedly in the light of the lamppost, and had a cold taste in his mouth.  It was different from stone...a stone in the teeth was simply a nuisance to spit out and ignore.  The wire felt like it was there to put up a fight.

With more time and less wind he might have gnawed at it until it weakened enough, but he didn't have all night to struggle.  He worked his way around the post, looking for weaknesses in the wire, finally finding where the ends had been twisted together.  He didn't know much about knots, and wasn't a student of topology, but he could understand moving the wire away from itself until the strands separated.  Then he pulled at one end until the other appeared.

Moving back to the bow, he saw where the wire had gone through holes in the ribbon, which was now the only thing holding the bow in place.  He paused a moment, gathering a little courage, then leaned forward to hook his claws into the body of the bow.  He twisted his neck, nipped at the last bit of ribbon holding the bow in place...

And jumped.

The feeling was indescribable.  Surrounded by nothing but air, held there by his grip on the bow, he finally took a good look at the ground so very far away.  It tipped, it twisted, it occasionally spun as the wind pushed every which way at the bow.  The view was dizzying, but nowhere near as dizzying as the sensation of being totally out of control.

Along the sidewalk he flew, drifting over the bushes, over the street, perilously close to the trees, before settling in a spiral that took him slowly downward, drifting back down to the concrete.

When his belly scraped on the ground and he came to a halt, he simply lay there, unable to make himself move.  Eventually his claws loosened from the ribbon, his breathing slowed, and his tail twitched.  He raised himself slowly up, taking in how normal everything around him once again was.

He knew he had to get back to the nest.  Dawn was coming, and soon humans would be too.  But he took the time before slipping away to carefully claw his name into the ribbon.  Next to all the other names.  He was no longer a contestant.  He was a brother.

    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

In the morning, the bow lay at its usual place, on the sidewalk not far from the lamppost, a bright red in the morning sunlight, slightly more raggedy around the edges than it had been the day before.

The maintenance man gazed down at it, then looked up at the top of the lamppost.  He wondered if he'd have to tie it up there with chain.

[big-mean-trans-dyke]

Halloween Party 2024 - Crime City

One of the more ambitious rooms is aptly named 'Crime City'. Not technically a room, it's a walled green space located just outside the garden, weeks of preparation spent setting up facades of buildings until the space looks like a small city block, then taking it a step further to even fill out a couple of these facades to be real, functional spaces.

A bank, a small theater, and a little medical center are among the fully realized buildings, and there's even a dingey little alleyway to stoop into for the brave of heart. Unfortunately, not all is well in Crime City. Poor, innocent transfems may find themselves accosted, stopped at the bank for money by cuntgirls in balaclavas that don't know their place. Hostage situations in the theater are more common than anywhere else in the world, and even the hospital, providing vital breast augmentations and hormones, isn't safe from the threat of these cuntgirls.

Thank god, then, for the main attraction of this space. Clad in colorful spandex, masked, and with a flair for the dramatic, cuntgirl superheroes defend the night from the evils of unsucked cocks and full balls.

When the redhead chosen to dress as Batgirl this evening hears the familiar twang of a slutty clown demanding someone put their hands up and hand over her money, she's there in a flash. Harley Quinn doesn't even know what hit her. Before she can say a word, she's on her knees, a hand in her hair and another prying her jaw open while her innocent victim pulls her cock out. By the time justice has been served, Harley's clown makeup is smeared into a red, white, and blue wreck all over her face, she's drooling cum from all three holes, and she's laying face-down in a puddle of her own juices.

When Black Widow hears the ranting of some dumb cuntgirl from the theater, saying words like 'hostages' and 'ransom', she's equally quick to intervene, sneaking up onto a catwalk, only to drop down onto the villain from above, pinning her. There's plenty of cable lying around the place to tie her, and it doesn't take much convincing to get her former hostages in the mood to take out their frustrations on her. One by one, they rise from their seats, ignoring her pleas as they stroke their cocks hard, then take turns filling each of her holes in a gangbang that lasts most of the night, the heroic Black Widow offering her services as a fluffer whenever her prey is busy with too many cocks to handle everyone who wants her.

When a sabotaged shipment to the health center gets all the transfems worked up, thank goodness for yet another hero. Nobody's really sure whether she has a name, she hasn't had much of a chance to garble it out around the cocks that've been filling her throat since she arrived, but she has a logo of a fleshlight emblazened on the chest of her spandex suit. Or rather, she did, before it'd been torn open to show off her tits, along with a nice, big hole at the crotch. The most altruistic of our heroes, there's no hiding behind a set of villainous holes for her, she sacrifices her own body to make sure every set of balls she sees leave at least two loads lighter.

Finally, for those with rougher tastes, a little cry for help from the alley is all it takes to draw a gullible superhero eager to help into the darkness. Despite the name, they're not super, and their costumes are there just for show, so there's nothing wrong with tearing their clothes to shreds, shoving them against a dirty dumpster, and making sure these 'superheroes' never, ever forget that they're nothing more than entertainment, there not to be taken seriously, but to empty transfem cock.