#merchant service

[ltwilliammowett]

House Flags

The custom of flying a house flag to identify a merchant ship is much older than you might think, as such flags have been in use since the 16th century. But what are house flags? Well, it is the flag or later painted funnel of a merchant vessel/ steamer that makes it easier to recognise a ship in a harbour and to identify who the ship belongs to.

What exactly was meant by this is somewhat controversial, as some believe that it only refers to the owner of the ship. Others believe it refers back to the companies to which the ship belonged. Since there are these points of contention, the dating is always viewed differently. Some date it as early as the 16th century with the emergence of the early companies or as late as the mid 19th century.

House flag, Royal Mail Lines Ltd., 1955- 67

It is a matter of definition, but it can be said that these flags and later painted funnels of recognition have appeared since the 17th century and are still carried by merchant ships today to indicate their affiliation.

[merchantservicesarticles101]

Merchant Services for Beauty Salons

[fanaticartisan]

Drinks with the Stranger

[spotted-owl-sketches]

Don't worry everyone. I still love this guy.

Look at that charming smile, he wouldn't strike you in the back and twist the knife, that's crazy! I trust him♡

[cadouisms]

customer service

i played re4 remake for 4 hours and decided i wanted the merchant carnally

the merchant/afab!reader, 18+  also on ao3

“You look like you’ve been through the ringer, stranger.”

At the sudden voice, you jerk. In the shadows of the building you ducked into, a robed man leans against a wall, surrounded by boxes and various bits of shelving. He looks huge. You defensively raise your bloodstained hatchet in front of you, adrenaline still hot and heavy in your veins.

The man shows his palms, placating. “Easy there. I’m not interested in fightin’.”

“What do you want?” Unsurprisingly, your voice comes out shaken, hoarse. You’ve been screaming all day.

“Way I see it, you stepped into my shop.”

“Your sh…” You lower your arms, inch by inch, as you properly assess your surroundings. A brazier burns in the corner, blazing a curious purple. Alongside the boxes, there’s a table covered in bits and bobs — ammo, you think, and some paper. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, you realize he’s not as big as you thought; on his back is an oversized bag, and he appears to strain under its weight. A merchant, you think. “What do you sell?”

The man laughs. It’s a gravelly staccato, a quite literal heh heh heh, that unnerves you. “What’re ya buyin’?”

Your pockets are bare. The only belongings you have are the clothes on your back and the hatchet in your hand. Even if you had any money, you doubted it’d be enough to afford even a single hot meal. You shake your head. “No budget for anything.”

“No?” He nods toward your hand. “Seems like you could use an upgrade, mate.”

He’s right. The blade is chipped and cracked in several places and is in dire need of a sharpening, if not a full replacement. You’re afraid it won’t last you much longer. “Please don’t misunderstand,” you say, voice cracking with overuse, “but I literally can’t afford one. I can’t pay.”

“Consider this a one-time offer, then.” The Merchant stands fully and, to your surprise, opens up his jacket. All sorts of knives, guns, ammo, and even tools hang from the inside. He pulls a small handgun from its sheath and spins it in his hand, holding the handle out to you. “She ain’t the most powerful out there, but she’ll get the job done better than that weapon of yours. On the house.”

Even underneath the hood, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose remain uncovered. A purple handkerchief obscures the rest of his features, mystifying him further. There’s no way to discern his intentions.

Fear him, says the rational part of your brain, the part that has kept you alive for the past day. You shouldn’t trust him. You should run and find somewhere else to camp out, take your chances with your shitty hatchet.

…But the lights flickering against the walls are oddly serene, and despite all his peculiarities, the Merchant seems the sanest person you’ve met. Not to mention the fact that you are in no position to refuse a free gun.

Your hatchet slides limply from your hand and clatters to the stone floor as you step closer. The metal of the pistol is cool and smooth in your hand, its weight neither too unwieldy or too light. You slide the magazine out — full — and reload. You double check that the trigger safety is on.

You’d need to find more bullets at some point, but that’s a problem for future you. As it is, you want to find a space to breathe and relax. Even after the horror of a day you’ve had, your heart still thuds rapidly in your chest, energy coiled so tight it’s a wonder you don’t explode. Your body wants to run far from the danger that lurks beyond these four walls, but you know you risk collapsing if you don’t rest.

“Well?” prods the Merchant.

His voice makes you startle. You come back to yourself all at once, and it hits you just

how close the two of you stand. He’s only a little taller than you, maybe more, but he’s much broader by far. Whether naturally or conflated with his oversized robe, you don’t know, but it makes your pulse quicken.

Fear him, your mind repeats. Run — but you’re rooted to the spot. You wet your lips.

All this adrenaline and no where for it to go.

The Merchant tilts his head. The sides of his hood give way enough that you can see his gaze as he looks you over. “Not satisfied yet, are you?”

You haven’t said thanks, you realize. “N-no, I—”

“How’s another special sound? Two for the price of one.” Slowly, deliberately, he begins to back you against the wall. His footfalls thud heavily against the floor.

You allow yourself to be trapped, sandwiched between him and the wall. Arousal throbs low between your thighs.

“We aim for customer satisfaction, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with sleazy promise. “Say the word, ‘n’ I’ll sort you out.”

“Please,” you breathe.

You expect him to be rough, or demanding, or treat you any other callous way. Instead, he finds your wrists and drags them above your head. He moves with intentional slowness to give you time to change your mind or flee. When you don’t do either of those things, he pins your wrists together with one hand (massive, how did you not notice earlier—) and dips his head close. “Watch that trigger finger,” he says. “Wouldn’t want any accidents, now.”

You grasp your new gun by the hilt, four fingers and thumb wrapped around it, as his free hand wastes no time in finding the zipper of your pants. No teasing, no foreplay— he slips under the waistband of your underwear and rubs a fingertip against your clit. The simple touch is enough to make you jolt.

“Didn’t realize you were this sensitive,” he says, amusement tinting his tone.

“Me neither.” You bite back a moan as he wets his fingertips with your own arousal, the newfound lubrication easing the slide as he draws circles around your clit. “S’been a long time.”

The simple fact that a stranger has his hands down your pants makes your head spin. This isn’t something you ever thought you’d do — but then again, that was before the parasites, before the weird cult. This is tame in comparison to the things you’ve had to do.

Then the Merchant slides two fingers into your hole, and your thoughts scatter. You’re wet enough that the abrupt intrusion doesn’t hurt, but you feel the stretch as you accommodate him. The fabric of his glove adds an interesting texture as he slowly pushes his fingers in and out of you. In another life, you’d be worried about the cleanliness of such an action.

Here, you can’t do anything but clench around him, mouth dropping open as you moan freely. “Feels good,” you pant. Then, “More.”

“More?” he parrots. “Greedy, aren’t we?”

Debauched, you think. Depraved. Sinful. You just nod.

“Gonna need more room for that.” He tugs your bottoms down further, enough so they bunch around your knees. The air cools your superheated skin. Your thighs spread wider. “There we go,” he all but coos, voice both condescending and not. He adds a third finger, stretching you much more than you’re used to, and your head falls back against the wall.

That coiled bundle of energy burns hotter within you, and you find yourself barrelling to the fastest orgasm of your life. “Please.” You twist in his grasp, bucking your hips onto his fingers. “Please, I’m so close.”

“Aye, I’ll get you there.” The fabric of his glove catches your clit with every thrust of his fingers, pleasure-pain sparking each time. “That good, eh?”

“Yes!” His fingers have you deliciously filled in a way your own never do. He smells distinctly masculine, like gunpowder and wood and smoke, and it just does something to your little monkey brain, enhances the pleasure. Hell, he could be anyone underneath his mask, and yet instead of fantasizing all you can concentrate on is the feeling in your cunt as he fingers you. “‘M’ gonna come,” you breathe. You squeeze around him as your pleasure climbs, stuttering his rhythm. “Please, oh fuck—”

Your back arches off the wall. In your ecstacy, the gun slips from your hand and falls to the floor. The Merchant laughs but you pay him no mind, moving to clutch desperately at the fabric of his robe as you ride the waves of your orgasm. His other hand, now free, plants itself firmly on the wall beside your head. You fuck yourself on his fingers until there’s nothing left in you, until you finally slump, breathless and boneless, against the wall.

The Merchant pulls away. You fix your clothing, pleasantly limp and fatigued. “I…thank you,” you say. “For the gun, and…”

Under his hood, his eyes glint. His hand disappears under the fabric that covers his face. You don’t have to see to understand what the wet popping noises mean. “Feel free to come back any time, stranger.”

Face heated and legs weak, you can only nod.

[soullessseraphim]

Have a skrunkly from my childhood :D

I luv him🧡

[edwards-exploit]

Troublesome Tangmere and 249 Squadron Reliable Rebecca!

In an ideal world, we could've had a story where Tangmere causes good old Sundrian Confusion and Delay and then promptly eats shit.

Rebecca as 249 Squadron wasn't my idea, but it's been ingrained into my head nonetheless. I like the idea of a Rebecca that spent most of her life in scrapyards and storage and then still coming out singing- quite literally! But the trauma of it is still very much there, just... lingering. I imagine 'What Rebecca Does' was one of those moments where her anxiety and self doubt got the better of her- she only spent a short while on rails, and while she did pull expresses like The Night Ferry back on the mainland, here on Sodor it seemed that everyone is much more.... experienced and worldly and cool, and most of all, they got modifications and rebuilds to work around their design flaws while Rebecca is still very much an unrebuilt bulleid pacific. Poor girl's not sure what she can really do, after all these years and with her mechanical problems. This isn't even getting into when she WAS in service- her family was fine, and quite loving actually- and the ex SR engines were a decent sort! Everyone else, however...

[fulgurbugs]

what do you think is the worst octopath take you’ve ever seen

ok i’ve seen a lot on reddit. because sadly i do crosspost there… so i can’t remember everything but one from recent memory that i remember clowning on with my friend is someone on reddit saying that alfyn and tressa wouldn’t like each other. literally why the fuck would they dislike each other they’re actually best friends forever

[izutsoupmi]

actually on the topic of nemo, it keeps tripping me up that she's Ruberuburuume because iirc that first syllable in Leber is an /eː/, so wouldn't it make more sense for the katakana to be Reberuburuume

[moreaugriffins]

3 having a big fat crush on the brig, but thinks the brig is straight (army man and ex-wife and all)

until brig starts saying some gay code shit ('friend of dorothy', going to brighton, knowing polari, etc) and oh, he isnt straight after all

anyway, 3 asks him out, and of course the brig accepts

and later 3 mentions that if brig hadnt dropped the clues, 3 wouldn't have had the courage to ask him out

brig has absolutely no idea wtf he's talking about

(it was all just a fucking coincidence)

[ltwilliammowett]

Ship’s medicine chest, America, 19th century

Starting in 1790, American merchant ships larger than 150 tons and with more than 10 crew members were required to have medicine chests with contents assembled by an “apothecary of known reputation.” These had to be accompanied by instructions for the administration of each medicine. Most commonly, either the captain or first mate administered pharmaceutical products to any crew in need.

[cokalee]

All that glitters is not gold

[fanaticartisan]

[princehendir]

i've seen you posting about cohost and i've been poking around and i've seen some references to making payments to support the site. do you know if those payments are mandatory for all users, or if they're similar to tumblr's current style of optionally paying for additional services/merch or opt-in monthly payments?

It's completely non-mandatory, & very similar to what Tumblr is currently doing. Cohost is fully free to sign up & use, and currently the people behind it are very firm on the position of all base site features being free forever. Optionally, a Cohost Plus subscription is 5$ a month/50$ a year, which gives you a higher image upload size limit and some exclusive subscriber emojis, there's also some other silly & cosmetic stuff planned for the future. Nothing vital. They also sell some merch through the anti-software software club website.