#scrub oak

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

"Pandora, Worrying About What She Is Doing, Finds a Way into the Valley through the Scrub Oak," from Always Coming Home by Ursula K. Le Guin

Look how messy this wilderness is. Look at this scrub oak, chaparro, the chaparral was named for it and consists of it mixed up with a lot of other things, but look at this shrub of it right here now. The tallest limb or stem is about four feet tall, but most of the stems are only a foot or two. One of them looks as if it had been cut off with a tool, a clean slice across, but who? what for? This shrub isn’t good for anything and this ridge isn’t on the way to anywhere. A lot of smaller branch-ends look broken or bitten off. Maybe deer browse the leafbuds. The little grey branches and twigs grow every which way, many dead and lichened, crossing each other, choking each other out. Digger-pine needles, spiders’ threads, dead bay leaves are stuck in the branches. It’s a mess. It’s littered. It has no overall shape. Most of the stems come up from one area, but not all; there’s no center and no symmetry. A lot of sticks sticking up out of the ground a little ways with leaves on some of them—that describes it fairly well. The leaves themselves show some order, they seem to obey some laws, poorly. They are all different sizes from about a quarter of an inch to an inch long, but each is enough like the others that one could generalise an ideal scrub-oak leaf: a dusty, medium dark-green color, with a slight convex curve to the leaf, which pillows up a bit between the veins that run slanting outward from the central vein; and the edge is irregularly serrated, with a little spine at each apex. These leaves grow irregularly spaced on alternate sides of their twig up to the top, where they crowd into a bunch, a sloppy rosette. Under the litter of dead leaves, its own and others’, and moss and rocks and mold and junk, the shrub must have a more or less shrub-shaped complex of roots, going fairly deep, probably deeper than it stands aboveground, because wet as it is here now in February, it will be bone dry on this ridge in summer.

There are no acorns left from last fall, if this shrub is old enough to have borne them. It probably is. It could be two years old or twenty or who knows? It is an oak, but a scrub oak, a low oak, a no-account oak, and there are at least a hundred very much like it in sight from this rock I am sitting on, and there are hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands more on this ridge and the next ridge, but numbers are wrong. They are in error. You don’t count scrub oaks. When you can count them, something has gone wrong. You can count how many in a hundred square yards and multiply, if you’re a botanist, and so make a good estimate, a fair guess, but you cannot count the scrub oaks on this ridge, let alone the ceanothus, buckbrush, or wild lilac, which I have not mentioned, and the other variously messy and humble components of the chaparral. The chaparral is like atoms and the components of atoms: it evades. It is innumerable. It is not accidentally but essentially messy. This shrub is not beautiful, nor even if I were ten feet high on hashish would it be mystical, nor is it nauseating; if a philosopher found it so, that would be his problem, but nothing to do with the scrub oak. This thing is nothing to do with us. This thing is wilderness. The civilized human mind’s relation to it is imprecise, fortuitous, and full of risk. There are no shortcuts. All the analogies run one direction, our direction. There is a hideous little tumor in one branch. The new leaves, this year’s growth, are so large and symmetrical compared with the older leaves that I took them at first for part of another plant, a toyon growing in with the dwarf oak, but a summer’s dry heat no doubt will shrink them down and warp them. Analogies are easy; the live oak, the humble evergreen, can certainly be made into a sermon, just as it can be made into firewood. Read or burnt. Sermo, I read; I read scrub oak. But I don’t, and it isn’t here to be read, or burnt. It is casting a shadow across the page of this notebook in the weak sunshine of three-thirty of a February afternoon in Northern California. When I close the book and go, the shadow will not be on the page, though I have drawn a line around it; only the pencil line will be on the page. The shadow will be then on the dead-leaf-thick messy ground or on the mossy rock my ass is on now, and the shadow will move lawfully and with great majesty as the earth turns.

The mind can imagine that shadow of a few leaves falling in the wilderness; the mind is a wonderful thing. But what about all the shadows of all the other leaves on all the other branches on all the other scrub oaks on all the other ridges of all the wilderness? If you could imagine those for even a moment, what good would it do? Infinite good.

-- Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home (273-5)

[concordlimeridgegarden]

Scrub Oak. Quercus berberidifolia.

Slow growing, this one is about 6 years old and is still only a foot tall.

[crudlynaturephotos]

[lazer-t]

Florida Scrub Jay for a $15 Ko-fi supporter

The Florida Scrub Jay (Aphelocoma coerulescens) is a species of Jay endemic to Florida, USA. Its range is specifically restricted to the florida oak scrub ecosystem. It has a varied omnivorous diet that includes arthropods, seeds and small vertebrates. They are known to cache thousands of acorns in the autumn which are then routinely dug up to eat during the entire year. (x, x)

[werewolfoffeverswamp]

i need the minds of every native floridian that says “florida is ugly the natural scenery is so boring” to embiggen AND QUICK before i start EXPLODING minds instead

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from The Revelator:

At first glance the hills and valleys covered in coastal sage scrub oak are little more than a featureless green swath. On closer inspection, however, you can recognize it for what it truly is: the beating heart of one of the most genetically rich ecosystems on the planet. Birds, insects, mammals, fungi, and even some other plants find refuge under the boughs of coastal sage scrub oak, while water drawn up from its deep roots spreads out to sustain ground-dwelling organisms.

Species name:

Coastal sage scrub oak or Nuttall’s scrub oak (Quercus dumosa)

Description:

The coastal sage scrub oak rarely grows more than about 7 feet tall, but it can spread outward a great distance thanks to its lateral branches and multiple trunks. The trees’ small, spiny leaves emerge in the spring soft and bright green, but gradually toughen and darken to a dusty dark green by summer. Their acorns tend to be thin and elongated, almost conical.

Where it’s found:

The coastal sage scrub oak, as its name implies, is found along coastal areas in Southern and Baja California. The full extent of its range is the subject of spirited debate, as it shares many similar physical characteristics with other scrub oaks found more inland. In San Diego County, the remaining populations of coastal sage scrub oak exist in fragmented populations, usually in wildlife reserves, like islands in a sea of urban development.

IUCN Red List status:

Endangered

Major threats:

Urban development destroyed much of this tree’s habitat, and its remnant population still faces this threat, along with several others. The introduction of grasses and other highly flammable nonnative species, like eucalyptus, have increased fire frequency and intensity. Escaped ornamental plants and grasses can outcompete oak saplings for light, space, and water. And climate change is resulting in disruptions to precipitation, which stresses all populations.

My favorite experience:

While collecting tissue samples after a spring rain, I took a moment to look at the tracks imprinted into the soft ground. Animal prints were everywhere — mule deer, raccoon, fox, opossum, roadrunner, and what I hoped were those of an exceedingly large bobcat and not a mountain lion. I rarely saw any of these animals during the day but, thanks to the rain, it was clear that they were all around me — present but hidden within the oaks.

My favorite experience:

What I could see, however, were the many birds flying from tree to tree, reminding me of fish swimming among outcrops of coral. Insects buzzed all around. Galls created by tiny wasps were starting to grow from some of the oaks. By summer, some of these galls would grow to the size and color of a peach, bobbing slowly in wind scented with wildflowers, sunbaked dust, and sagebrush. I knew that under my feet deep roots reached toward the precious groundwater that would sustain the forest during the dry season, and spreading from those roots were mycorrhizal fungi that would work with the oaks to support each other.

I grew up among the firs, cedars, hemlocks, and maples of the Pacific Northwest. I always thought forests needed to be composed of tall, majestic trees christened with carpets of rolling moss. Yet this sea of small, scraggly oaks held so much life. My perspective grew. It’s one thing to read about this ecosystem and another matter entirely to truly see it and understand how precious it is.

[nothwell]

inspired by a recent poll

[rachelsrandomsphotos]

Taken at Malabar Scrub Sanctuary in Malabar, FL

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

The mind can imagine that shadow of a few leaves falling in the wilderness; the mind is a wonderful thing. But what about all the shadows of all the other leaves on all the other branches on all the other scrub oaks on all the other ridges of all the wilderness? If you could imagine those for even a moment, what good would it do? Infinite good. -- Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home (275)

[curtailedwhale]

Orange and yellow moot. like an oak in the Fall....

I will make you a picnic of homemade soup and bread, and we will go to the mountains to enjoy the colors...

[crudlynaturephotos]

[tedmustache]

In sync

Pairing: Jack Abbott x Wife!Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Two doctors work in perfect sync, sparking curiosity among new interns. After shift, subtle truths begin to surface.

Requests are open | Main Masterlist

[...]

The Pitt was humming with life, chaos, and fluorescent light. It was one of those shifts where no one had time to breathe, much less eat, yet somehow, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. Y/N L/N never missed a step.

It wasn’t flashy. It was like muscle memory, the way they moved together. Jack would glance at a monitor, and Y/N would already be adjusting a vent setting. She’d murmur a stat order under her breath, and he’d be handing over the form before she finished.

“Jesus,” Whitaker muttered as he watched them intubate a patient in tandem. “It’s like they’re… psychically linked.”

“Or they have earpieces we can’t see,” Javadi whispered, eyes darting back and forth between the two attendings.

“They don’t even look at each other,” Dr. Santos added. “It’s eerie. What are they? Married or something?”

“Old,” came a voice from behind them. Dr. Robby strolled by with a chart tucked under his arm and a half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Old and terrifying. You’ll get there in ten years.”

The newbies blinked. Still, none of the new hires knew the real kicker.

Because no one told them.

The nurses, the residents, even the cafeteria staff. They all kept the secret locked tight behind knowing smirks and barely-contained laughter. It was tradition.

And tonight, the setup was perfect.

The shift ended just past 8:00 p.m. The team trickled out to the park across from the hospital. An unofficial post-shift ritual. Six-packs were cracked open, greasy takeout was distributed, and bodies collapsed onto benches and grass with groans of exhaustion.

Jack sat down on the bench beneath the park’s old oak tree. Y/N followed a moment later, plopping down beside him and handing him a cold beer without a word. He took it, nodded once in thanks, and rested his hand casually behind her on the bench’s backrest.

The newbies were huddled together with their drinks, watching the two of them closely.

“She just… handed him a beer. Didn’t even ask.”

“He just leaned closer. Did he smile?”

“Is this… are they…?”

And then, it happened.

Y/N, hair frizzed from the day, leaned her head gently onto Jack’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch or look surprised. He just shifted slightly so she’d be more comfortable, gave her a kiss at the cheek, and took a slow sip of his beer.

Javadi gasped audibly.

Robby was right there. He stood up with theatrical slowness and clinked his bottle against Jack’s with a smirk. “About time. PDA on the first date, huh?”

Jack rolled his eyes, and Y/N chuckled, nudging him with her shoulder.

“Wait, wait, what?” Whitaker sputtered, beer halfway to his mouth. “Are they together?!”

Dr. Santos, three bites into her falafel wrap, didn’t even look up. “Called it”

"We are married" Y/N said with a chuckle

“What?!”

Jack reached into his scrub top and pulled out a thin chain. On it, a modest gold band. Y/N mirrored him, revealing the matching ring around her neck.

The interns looked like they’d just been hit by a trauma case themselves.

“Four and a half years,” Y/N said with a shrug, sipping her beer.

“You knew?” Mel asked Langdon, stunned.

Langdon snorted. “Of course I knew. Everyone knows.”

“Everyone?” Javadi asked, eyes darting around.

A chorus of nods followed

Matteo added “We like to see who figures it out. It’s the only entertainment we get some nights.”

The newbies just sat there, stunned.

Jack and Y/N? Married? The most professional, zero-nonsense duo in the hospital?

Robby smirked at their dumbfounded faces and muttered to Jack, “Still can’t believe she said yes to you, man.”

Jack didn’t respond. He just leaned a little closer to Y/N, who was now resting comfortably against his shoulder, completely at ease.

And in that moment, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.

[riddlesrizzler]

𝙎𝙞𝙜𝙢𝙖 𝙉𝙪’𝙨 𝙎𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩

summary: A diamond in a house full of snakes.

characters: frat boy! mattheo. frat sweetheart! reader. frat boy! slytherins

warnings: mentions of alcohol and making pledges do things (not hazing)

word count: 2.3k

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

They called it the Snake House, though its real name-Sigma Nu-was etched in fading silver above the wrought iron gates that led to the manor. Hidden behind ivy-draped columns and shrouded by ancient oaks, the fraternity estate stood on the edge of campus like a secret too dangerous to be kept in daylight. No one quite remembered when Sigma Nu had been founded-some whispered it was pre-dating the university itself, rooted in ancient rites and blood oaths sworn beneath crescent moons. But in the present, it was feared, admired, and envied in equal measure.

The president of Sigma Nu was Mattheo Riddle, a name spoken with the kind of reverence reserved for legends and tyrants. Sharp of tongue and sharper of mind, Mattheo ruled the fraternity not with brutish dominance, but with a silken charisma that wrapped itself around you like a noose. He was all marble and firelight: smooth, cold, untouchable on the outside, yet flickering with something volatile beneath the surface.

His second-in-command, Theodore Nott, was the shadow behind the throne. Where Mattheo set the tone, Theo enforced it. He was quieter, more calculated, with a gaze like cut glass and a voice you only heard when he needed to remind someone of their place. The brothers called him “The Watcher”-not because he hovered, but because he saw everything.

The rest of the inner circle rotated like planets in their orbit.

Lorenzo Berkshire, with his floppy brown hair and wicked grin, handled social affairs-if such a title could be applied to the lavish masquerades and forbidden midnight galas he orchestrated. Enzo was charm incarnate, hiding razor-sharp instincts behind a glass of wine and a well-tailored coat. People underestimated him. That was their first mistake.

Draco Malfoy, heir to a crumbling aristocracy, served as treasurer. But that role was a formality. Draco was the gatekeeper to the legacy. His family had once poured obscene amounts of money into Sigma Nu, and though the vaults ran thinner now, his word still carried the weight of dynasties. Cold and calculating, Draco rarely spoke unless it was to remind others they weren’t worth speaking to.

Then there was Blaise Zabini, the strategist. He didn’t run the meetings or throw the parties. He played the long game-the one that was always three moves ahead. A cigarette always rested between his fingers, and secrets curled around him like smoke. Blaise’s role wasn’t official. It didn’t have to be. In Sigma Nu, knowledge was currency, and he was the quiet king of the underground economy.

Together, they formed the serpent’s head.

The house itself was a relic from another time. Stained-glass windows filtered the sunlight into eerie patterns on mahogany floors. The walls were lined with portraits of brothers past-men with hollow eyes and stories that had been scrubbed from official records. A grand staircase, rumored to creak only when someone lied in its presence, split the mansion in two. The basement was off-limits, except for the highest-ranking members. What happened down there was never spoken of, but the muffled echoes that sometimes rose through the vents kept the rumors alive.

Rituals were everything in Sigma Nu. Pledging wasn't just about endurance-it was a test of will, of loyalty, of how far you were willing to crawl for power. And once you were in, you were in. There was no leaving. Not really. Former brothers found themselves mysteriously blacklisted, their futures erased with quiet efficiency. No one crossed the Snake House without bleeding for it.

Yet every year, the line to rush snaked down the cobblestone path, filled with students desperate to touch even the hem of that forbidden tapestry. Power, after all, is seductive. And Mattheo Riddle’s Sigma Nu had power in spades.

But inside those ivy-covered walls, something was shifting. There were murmurs of a fracture in the hierarchy. An outsider watching too closely. A secret the founders had buried that might be clawing its way back to the surface.

And at the center of it all: Mattheo, with a hand on the throne and another on the throttle.

But between the echoes of old secrets and the weight of a legacy stitched in silence, she was the unexpected constant-soft in a world that was anything but. While Mattheo navigated the shifting loyalties and unspoken rules of the house, she remained untouched by the storm, yet always in its eye. She didn’t need a title to hold power; she had something rarer. Influence, without force. Presence, without demand. And though the throne was his to claim, she was the one they all moved around-the one they’d protect without question, even as the walls whispered of betrayal and the past threatened to rise. Because to the outside world, she was just the Diamond of Alpha Delta Pi. But to them… she was the heart of Sigma Nu.

The Snake House had never known softness before she arrived. But now, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the halls before chapter meetings, and there were always cookies cooling on the kitchen counter beside the whiskey bottles. Her laugh echoed down the staircase, light and melodic, blending strangely well with the heavy bass of party nights and the creak of ancient floorboards.

She wasn't just a sweetheart by title-she was the heartbeat of the fraternity.

Every Friday, three pledges showed up at her off-campus cottage, armed with mops and laundry detergent, ready to clean top to bottom without question. It had become a tradition-Sigma Nu took care of her. Always. It was Theo’s rule. But it was Mattheo’s order.

The pledges were already working by the time the rest of the world stirred. One was sweeping under the island. Another was wiping down cabinets. A third was sorting her laundry into color-coded piles on the dining room table.

“Don’t forget the lavender dryer sheets,” she reminded one of them sweetly, not looking up from her dough.

“Yes, ma’am,” the pledge muttered, blushing.

“You didn’t have to come clean.” She looked over her shoulder at him, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I wanted to.” Mattheo walked in, groggy but sharp-eyed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You send pledges to clean my own house every week. My landlord thinks I have a personal cleaning service." She giggled.

“You basically do,” he said, flicking his lighter closed. “You bake banana bread and let Theo cry on your couch. You’ve earned it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he replied, and stepped forward, gently swiping the flour from her cheek with his thumb. “You spoil us. Let us return the favor.”

She looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching.

“You don’t have to keep proving things to me, Mattheo.”

He met her gaze, unwavering. “I’m not. I’m proving it to everyone else.”

At parties, she didn’t need to lift a finger. A pledge carried her drink. Another held her coat. If she looked even slightly tired, someone found her a seat. When she danced, people made room.

The party pulsed like a living thing-booming bass, laughter slurred into inside jokes, the thick haze of too much beer and too little inhibition. Lights blinked across the walls, casting silvers and greens on the sweaty crowd packed into the house’s main room.

Then she walked in.

The chatter didn’t stop-but it shifted. Heads turned. A few of the brothers straightened up. Pledges scrambled to make space near the drinks table. And at the edge of the chaos, Mattheo Riddle watched her with a smirk wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle.

Diamond House perfection. The only sweetheart Sigma Nu would ever need.

She made her way toward the kitchen, exchanging soft smiles and cheek kisses, until one of the guys shouted, “Sweetheart’s here!”

Cheers erupted like a spell had been cast.

Mattheo didn’t move. Just leaned back against the doorway, letting his eyes follow her every step. When a freshman tried handing her a half-full drink, Mattheo’s voice cut sharp and smooth across the room.

“She only drinks vodka cran, dumbass.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

The pledge blinked, nodded quickly, and disappeared.

She found Mattheo seconds later, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re going to scare off all the new members.”

“Good.” He looked down at her. “They were getting too bold.”

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”

He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. “Nah. Diamonds are tougher than glass.”

She arched a brow. “So I’m tough?”

“You’re dangerous.” His voice dipped, low and dry. “I’ve seen more than a few guys fall stupid over you in five seconds flat.”

“And you?” she asked sweetly. “Still standing?”

Mattheo took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “Barely.”

When she walked into a tailgate wrapped in an oversized Sigma Nu hoodie-Draco’s once, Blaise’s the next, Enzo’s after that-everyone knew it was only borrowed until Mattheo noticed she was cold and quietly handed her his.

He always did.

The wind whipped around the tailgate like it had something to prove. She stood on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd, the hem of her Sigma Nu hoodie fluttering. Not hers, technically-Mattheo’s. Still smelled like smoke and spice and something she couldn’t name.

He appeared behind her like a shadow.

“Cold again?”

“You have a sixth sense for it.”

“No.” He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “I just know you.”

She turned with a grin, poking his chest. “So, what’s the plan, President? Going to assign a pledge to hold my hand all day too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flickered over her, playful. “I’d make it a rotating shift.”

She laughed, full and bright.

“I could carry my own books, you know.”

“And ruin our entire pledging system?” he asked, mock serious. “What would the freshmen do without you assigning them smoothie runs and study session alarms?”

“You love it.”

Mattheo didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped back and tossed her his scarf. “Put that on.”

“Possessive much?”

“Practical,” he said with a wink. “And if anyone asks-tell them it’s house policy.”

Mattheo Riddle didn’t smile easily. But he watched her like she hung the stars. Protective wasn’t the right word-it was something fiercer, deeper. He knew the sound of her footsteps before she even knocked. He knew how she took her tea, what time her classes ended, what books were stacked in her bag on any given day.

And when he wasn’t sitting at the head of the chapter table, you could find him leaning against the counter while she stirred brownie batter, sleeves pushed up, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame. She was always cooking for them-baking too-and she stayed through every meeting, sitting on the arm of Mattheo’s chair like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Theo might’ve been vice president, but she was Mattheo’s right hand. She helped organize formals, charity auctions, service hours, and pledge retreats. The boys listened when she spoke-not because they were told to, but because they wanted to.

She had that kind of presence. Gentle, golden. The kind of energy that softened even the sharpest of them.

Draco, for all his cold poise, once spent an hour carving roses out of apples because she needed garnishes for a spring brunch. Enzo stopped calling other girls “gorgeous” in her presence out of some misplaced loyalty. Blaise-usually detached and unreadable-offered up his rare, real smiles only when she sat beside him, asking how his day had been like she meant it.

She wasn’t just a name on the sweetheart paddle or a girl in the stands. She was the heartbeat of the house-the reason the boys cleaned up before chapter meetings, the reason pledges learned to bake banana bread from scratch, the reason the Snake House didn’t feel like just a frat, but like something closer to home.

She made it feel like something worth protecting.

The brothers would say it, loud and proud, beers raised and sloshing at tailgates- “She’s ours.”

She showed up early to help decorate before parties. She stayed late to clean. She knew all their birthdays, their favorite meals, their secret fears. When Enzo got sick, she made him soup from scratch and handwrote the recipe card so he could brag about it. When Theo failed a midterm, she sat up with him until 3 a.m., mapping out a study plan like his future depended on it.

Draco, who rarely showed softness, once told her, “If I ever get married, it’s because you raised the bar so high I finally found someone who reminded me of you.”

Blaise swore she brought peace into every room she walked into. Lorenzo called her their “lucky charm.” The pledges called her ma’am-but with awe, not obligation.

She wasn’t perfect. But she was real. She laughed too hard. She danced barefoot in the house like she didn’t care who saw. She left behind hair ties, lip balm, and the scent of vanilla in every room. And when the world got too loud, she leaned into chaos with a smile like she’d tamed fire.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo watched it all from the edge. Quiet. Unshakable. Unclaimed but not untouched.

She wore his hoodies, and he never asked for them back. He let her take the best seat at every party, made the boys swap their plans if she needed help, silenced a room with just a glance if anyone dared say her name wrong.

He never said it-not out loud. Never told her that she made the world easier to stand in. Never admitted that he memorized her favorite flowers or that he checked if her porch light was on after every party.

She might’ve worn Diamond blue, but she was etched into Sigma Nu like a secret kept under lock and key.

And Mattheo Riddle didn’t share secrets.

[mrsbarnesblog]

dirty work

summary: Cleaning Tanneyhill was just a job until Rafe Cameron made it his business to get under your skin. Little did you know that behind his countless insults and smug looks, he was fighting himself for liking a pogue. And when the house was empty, he finally stopped trying.

word count: 2.3k.

warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, power imbalance?, degradation, dirty talk, manhandling, kinda mean Rafe

Tanneyhill was just another job for you. The marble floors, the grand staircase, expensive furniture, and even more expensive pieces of decor, but it didn’t impress nor interest you in the slightest. It was just a place to clean, just another shift that paid the bills. You had grown used to the Kooks sneering down at you and seeing you as a person below them, and Rafe Cameron was no different.

If anything, he was worse.

From the first time you stepped foot in the house, he had made it clear you were beneath him. The way he looked at you, the way he scoffed when you passed by—it was nothing new, but with him, it was harsher, more intense, and sometimes it hurt you more than you could’ve admitted. He didn’t just ignore you like the others did. He made sure you knew exactly what he thought of you.

“You missed a spot.” He had muttered once, walking past you without sparing you a glance, leaving you seething and way too bothered for your liking.

It was always something. A comment, a glare, a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine for reasons you didn’t want to acknowledge. You had convinced yourself he just hated you—hated you because you were a Pogue, because you didn’t belong in his world, because he was Rafe.

What you didn’t know was that Rafe Cameron was losing his mind.

It started the first time he saw you bending over to scrub the floors, your uniform, that for some fucking reason you always had to wear, riding up just enough to reveal the curve of your thighs. He hadn’t meant to stare, hadn’t meant to let his mind wander, but fuck, once it did, he couldn’t stop.

Every time you were around, his body betrayed him.

It was a problem.

You’d be dusting the bookshelves, and he’d find himself gripping the edge of the counter, trying to keep himself from reaching out. You’d be wiping down the kitchen counters, and he’d have to leave the room entirely because just the sight of your fingers running over the marble made him throb in his jeans. It was infuriating. You were a fucking Pogue. He had no business thinking about you like that, no business picturing the way your lips would feel around his cock, or how tight you’d be if he just—

No.

He hated you. That was easier to believe.

But then, one afternoon, he lost all reason.

For once, the house was empty. Rose gone, Ward gone, Sarah and Wheezie nowhere to be found. He had been watching you all day, not actually following you, but lurking around, observing. Watching the way your body moved as you worked, watching the way your fingers wrapped around the cleaning supplies, gripping, twisting—

He had enough.

You were dusting the shelves in Ward Cameron’s office when you heard the door click shut behind you.

“You shouldn’t be touching that.” Rafe’s voice was drawled, low, and rough. He stood there, hands in the pockets of his jeans and a slight frown on his face, as his eyes zeroed in on you holding an antique vase from his father’s collection.

You sighed, already bracing yourself for whatever attitude he was about to throw your way. “It’s my job, Cameron.”

That should’ve been the end of it. He should’ve rolled his eyes and walked out like he usually did. But this time he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer, his presence shifting the air in the room, thickening it. The clean, sharp scent of his cologne wrapped around you, making your movements hesitant for a second. He was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Your job, huh?” He muttered, leaning against the massive oak desk. “You like being on your knees all day, huh, Pogue?”

Your grip on the cloth tightened. “Go to hell, Rafe.” He smirked. But there was something different in his eyes. It was intense, darker than usual, and for a second your stomach twisted before you focused back on cleaning. 

“You talk real tough.” He said, tilting his head. “But you wouldn’t last a second if I gave you what you really wanted.”

Your breath hitched. “What the hell are you talking about?”

His gaze flickered down to your lips, then lower. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears when the realization of what he had just said sat it. The way his voice got deeper and he stepped closer to you made you get lost for words. You should have walked away. You should have turned on your heel and stormed out of the room.

But then he grabbed your wrist.

Your back hit the bookshelves before you could even register that Rafe had moved, his body pressing into yours, caging you in. The solid wood dug into your spine, but it wasn’t the only thing making your head spin.

Rafe was right there. His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, and his breath is fanning across your cheek.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” He murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, making your breath hitch. “Tell me.” He repeated, his fingers trailing down your side, gripping your hip. 

You hated him. You loathed him. He was everything wrong with the world you lived in. And yet, you didn’t move. You couldn’t. And Rafe took that as an answer.

His mouth crashed against yours, rough and demanding, stealing the air from your lungs. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, pulling you against him until you could feel just how badly he wanted you, how painfully hard he was in his jeans.

“You drive me fucking insane.” He growled against your lips, biting it until it almost started to bleed.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to stop. But it was impossible. Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when his hands were so desperate and demanding.

He lifted you effortlessly, setting you on Ward’s desk, pushing your legs apart as he stepped between them.

“I should hate you.” He muttered, his fingers sliding up your thighs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “I do hate you.” But the way he was touching you, the way his breath was uneven against your skin, felt like anything but hate.

Rafe didn’t waste time, pushing your legs furter from each other with his hips, looming over you in a way that made you let him do with you whatever he wanted. His grip was rough, hands moving like he had been waiting for this, aching for it.

“You wanna pretend you don’t want this?” He muttered, dragging his fingers up your thighs, pushing your uniform higher and higher. “Like you don’t get wet thinking about me?” Your breath hitched as he yanked you forward, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin beneath your skirt.

“You’re disgusting.” You shot back, looking right back at his hooded eyes, your voice sharper than you felt, because fuck, you should’ve stopped this. Fucking in your boss’s office with his son? With Rafe fucking Cameron? Yeah, that was the stupidest idea.

He smirked, like he enjoyed the way you bit back and always knew what to say to him, not like other people who were too afraid to open their mouth. He wanted to see how far he could push you.

“And you’re soaked through your panties.” He murmured, shamelessly shoving his hand between your legs, pressing his fingers against the damp fabric. “What’s that say about you, huh?”

You glared at him, but it was useless. The heat in his eyes was unbearable, searing through you, making your skin burn under his touch.

Rafe was quick about it, tugging your underwear to the side and running his fingers through your slick folds before pulling away completely. Your eyes started rolling back from an unfamiliar, rough, and urgent touch, but you barely had time to register the loss before he was grabbing your wrist and pulling you off the desk.

“Couch. Now.”

You let him lead you to the leather couch against the wall, the one Ward sat on when he wanted to have his serious, businesslike conversations. The thought of that almost made you laugh—how furious he would be if he knew what his son was about to do to you right here.

Rafe didn’t give you time to think, as he was already yanking his belt open, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. Your breath caught at the sight of him—thick, hard, flushed at the tip.

“C’mon, Pogue.” He muttered, dropping onto the couch, leaning back like he was making himself comfortable. “Put yourself to work.”

You clenched your jaw. He was such a fucking asshole, but the way he was looking at you with that lazy and smug smirk playing at his lips sent something dangerous twisting in your stomach. It would be stupid to deny how wet that image made you.

Your common sense was thrown out of the window in a second as you straddled his lap, your knees sinking into the leather on either side of his thighs. His hands were on you immediately, shoving your skirt up, grabbing handfuls of your ass like he had the right to.

“That’s it.” Rafe murmured, his voice dark with something between amusement and hunger. “Knew you’d be a good little slut for me.”

You wanted to slap him for that. You wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up. But when one warm and heavy hand stayed on the side of your ass and the other one grabbed his cock, rubbing the head against your soaked panties, every sharp retort died on your tongue.

“Go on.” He said, pressing just enough to tease, just enough to make your hips shift, desperate for more. “Sit on it.”

You yanked your underwear aside and sank down, the stretch burning just enough to make you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. You hissed, throwing your head back and biting back a moan, but the way your thighs trembled on either side of him made it pretty obvious. 

“Fuck.” Rafe groaned, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, and pushing you even further down, until he fully settled inside. “Tight as hell. Like this pussy’s never had a real cock before.”

Your breath shuddered, your body adjusting to the way he filled you and stretched you. His hands moved to your waist, guiding you, experimentally forcing you to slide up and down his cock until he was buried to the hilt.

“That’s right.” He groaned, throwing his head back against the couch, mouth slightly open and eyes focused on your furrowed face. “Take it.”

You moved, rolling your hips, trying to find a rhythm, and Rafe lost all semblance of composure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He growled, his hands gripping and slapping your ass, pushing you down harder. “Look at you. Just a little housekeeper, bouncing on my cock in my dad’s office. Bet you never thought you’d end up here.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt, using it for leverage as you rode him, each roll of your hips making him grunt and tighten his grip.

“Goddamn.” His eyes locked on where your bodies met, mesmerized by the way you took him and noticing how more and more of your juices were sliding down his cock and probably ruining the leather of the couch. “Bet you love this, huh? Getting fucked by a Kook, letting me use you like this.” You slammed your ass again, making you whimper and bite your lip.

Your breath came in sharp pants, your thighs burning from the position, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when he felt this good. Not when every movement sent electricity surging through your veins.

Rafe’s fingers snaked between your legs, rubbing tight, lazy circles against your clit. “C’mon.” He coaxed, his voice rough and desperate. “Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

At hearing his voice, your body betrayed you, and your hips started moving faster in a desperate attempt to reach your release. You were close, too close, your nails raking over his skin as the tension coiled tight in your stomach.

“That’s it.” Rafe groaned, his grip bruising, his thrusts meeting yours now, pushing his cock even deeper and making you almost see stars. “Give it to me.”

And then you snapped, your body clenched around him, your vision blurring, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through you.

Rafe followed right after, cursing as he buried himself deep and painted your insides with his cum, his hands still gripping you like he never wanted to let go. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you was thick and heavy, while your body was limp on top of him.

Then, just as your breathing started to slow, Rafe smirked.

“Fuck.” He muttered, his hands running up your thighs. “Might have to keep you around, Pogue.” You glared at him, shoving his chest as you climbed off his lap, wincing at the feeling of his release slowly dripping down your leg. 

“Go to hell, Rafe.” You mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes and ignoring the smug and satisfied look on his face as he was still leaning back on the couch. 

You didn’t know what the hell just happened, what’s going to happen next, but something deep inside of you told you that it was far from over. 

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ confronting stepbro!rafe after the lewd images he sent you

warnings — 18+. MDNI. stepbro!rafe x stepsis!reader, implied smut & sexual relations, stepcest.

sending stepbro!rafe lewd images at the dinner table | part one - you are currently on part two.

cherie's note — listening to fantasize by ariana grande while writing this ... yum. wasn't planning on making a part two, but i had to give u guys something. <3

rafe wasn't expecting an answer. not one like that. not from you.

his stepsister, of all people.

he shouldn't have sent that video in the first place — he knew better, but the second he got yours?

game over.

you thought the regret would fade. that the embarrassment, the shame, the tight knot in your stomach, would loosen after a day or two. but it didn't. every time your phone buzzed, your chest tightened, half expecting rafe's name to pop up.

except, it never did.

he hadn't said a word about it. no sarcastic remarks, no lingering looks. just... nothing. like it had never happened. the silence gnawed at you, twisting and turning, refusing to settle.

the silence was the worst part of it all.

and yet, when you passed him in the long hallways of tannyhill, it was there. the air thick with something unspoken, wrapped in tension and hunger. his gaze lingered a second too long, his lips almost curling into a smirk each time he watched the way your cheeks flushed when your gaze met blue. but then it was gone, like it had never been there at all.

now, the house was quiet. your parents were gone for the night, wheezie sleeping over at one of her friends for the weekend, leaving you and rafe alone. it shouldn't have mattered, but the awareness of it clung to your skin, unable to be washed off even if you scrubbed. you tried to distract yourself — music, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, even half-heartedly attempting to read — but none of it worked.

barefoot, you padded down the hallway, every step echoing in your chest. your stomach tightened when you reached his door, knuckles wrapping softly against the lacquered wood.

"come in."

the man's voice echoes against the wooden oak door. his tone is smug, that much is sure, even through the door — as if he had anticipated from the start, that you'd come crawling. 

you stepped inside his bedroom, hesitating for just a second. rafe was sitting on his bed, his eyes glinting in that way that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking. his posture was relaxed, though his heart was pounding pathetically out of his chest, anticipation rising as he watched you enter — watching you like he was trying to figure out what you were about to do.

"i need to talk to you," you said, your voice cracking. it was rougher than you had intended, betraying just how unsettled you felt, standing before him, knowing he knew more about you than a brother should.

his lips curled into a half-smirk, but it didn't reach his eyes. he leaned back, crossing his arm behind his head. the holes of his t-shirt ride up at the movements, barely able to contain the muscles of his arms. the sight alone had your mouth watering, but you swallowed hard — you had come in here for one thing, and one thing, only.

you were angry — angry at him for making you feel so exposed, and angry at yourself for giving him power over you.

"what about? that little picture you sent me?" the words dripped with something dangerous, something almost mocking, but there was also that same intensity in the air between you.

"what do you want from me, rafe?" your voice was steadier now, but it still cracked with that undercurrent of emotion you were trying to suppress.

his smirk deepened, but this time there was something else behind it — something more real, more raw. "what do you think i want?" he asked, voice almost a whisper now. he wasn't looking at you like some sort of joke anymore. his eyes were searching, like he was waiting for you to admit something you both knew, but neither of you wanted to say aloud.

you shook your head, frustrated. "i don't know, rafe. i don't know what you're playing at. you send me something like that, and then you—"

"i didn't make you respond," he interrupted, sitting up straighter now, gaze unwavering. "you did that. you sent it back. so don't blame me for what you're feeling now."

the edge in his voice had sent shivers down your spine. he was right, and that made it so much worse. he knew exactly what buttons to push — exactly how to make you react, and yet, part of you hated how much you liked it. how it seemed to spike your heart rate every time he spoke.

the air between you felt like it was thickening with every passing second, like the room was closing in on you. rafe didn't step back; instead, his gaze remained locked on yours, that stupid familiar smirk playing at the corners of his lips. the edge was gone, replaced by something far more serious — almost predatory.

"you came to my room for a reason," he said quietly, his voice hanging heavy with intent. there was no mistaking it now. he wasn't talking about a conversation, he wasn't asking for answers anymore.

your mouth felt dry. each nervous gulp you took felt stuck in your throat, heart pounding against the cage of your chest. your body felt like it was betraying you, betraying how hard you'd tried to avoid this. you hadn't meant to come in here for this — it was supposed to be an innocent conversation about what you had so stupidly done on a whim, but it was quickly taking another approach. you hadn't meant to let it get this far. and yet, every part within was telling you that you wanted it. that you wanted him.

"i—i didn't come in here for that," you said, but even as you said it, you knew it was a lie. because your body was already leaning toward him, closing the space between you without a second thought.

that was the worst part.

no matter how much you convinced yourself — or tried convincing him, you couldn't stop the way your body begged for it.

the moment was in fast motion, rafe refusing to give you another chance to think. one second, you were pressed against the door, and the next, he had you caged against it, his knee sliding between your thighs, pressing up just enough to make your breath hitch. his hands weren't tentative anymore — there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. he had never been so sure of anything in his life.

his mouth ghosted over your collarbone, just as his fingers curled possessively against your skin. he had waited months for this moment — ever since the first time he had laid eyes on you. his breath is hot on your skin, hands roaming eagerly against the foreign curves of your figure.

"think our parents would still call us family after this?"

your stomach clenched at his words.

he had said it like a taunt, like he wanted to make this worse — like he wanted you to realize just how fucked up this was. but the way his hands pull you closer, fingertips burning hot against the sensitive skin of your waist, told you he didn't care. he wasn't stopping, and neither were you.

"then stop," you whispered back, challenging. the look in your eyes, staring up at him through your lashes, any ounce of hesitation left in his already hot body, vanished.

his grip on you tightened. his lips dragged along your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils were blown wide.

"you first."

his lips against yours is rough, filled with months of pent-up tension, and pure want. he kissed you hard, like he was staking his claim.

like he was making sure there was no going back.

tag list — @flvredcas, @my-name-is-baby, @sublimepenguinpeach-blog, @virgoanliterarian.

[undiscovered-horizon]

[The one where Sanji is jealous of the attention you're getting and he takes advantage of the effect he has on you.]

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The banquet has been going on for a good few hours now. All of the Straw Hats were surprisingly infallible in playing their roles to infiltrate the creme de la creme of pirates: Usopp and Nami, dressed as waiters, could befriend anyone into telling them something interesting. Luffy is taken for much stupider and thus less dangerous than he really is and some looser lips aren't afraid to spill a secret or two around him. Zoro and you are just supposed to be in the in the background, watching and listening. So far so good.

Sanji's mission is to listen in to the gossip that drunk sailors often like to exchange with bartenders but he has found himself in a terrible situation. On one hand, he couldn't blow his cover and start a fight. On the other, he is beyond done with the unsavoury comments about you the men drinking by the bar are exchanging. The only thing that curbs his burning jealousy is the knowledge that he's the only one to know the answers to their questions and speculations about your prowess in several private matters. Despite his fury, he can't really blame them. His own thoughts are escaping his grasp whenever he glances at your seemingly disinterested exterior, made all the more enticing in a long, red dress that belongs more to opera houses than bars frequented by pirates.

He's been scrubbing this one glass for a good five minutes. If he tightens his grip even just a little, the dish is bound to break into a thousand little pieces. Finally, he sets the champagne flute down and makes his way to the chattering men.

"Hate to be the joykiller, gentlemen," he speaks up casually, never giving away even a hint of his anger, "but she is not interested in you."

The three men look him up and down. Either they are ignorant to the concept of hygiene and sunscreen or they really are old enough to be your father. One of them gives him a contemptuous grin, uncovering a row of gold teeth.

"And what do you know, bar boy?" the pirate asks in a hoarse voice.

Sanji leans against the bar counter on his arms. "That rum you're drinking, Cruzan 9?" he nods his head towards the glasses with unfinished drinks. "She's more of a Caroni girl. A couple more zeros on the price tag, longer in the barrel, a rich bouquet of oak, caramel and berries." A charming, almost not arrogant, smile enters his face as he looks at the pirates with a look of superiority in his blue eyes. "Sophisticated palate for a sophisticated woman."

"Is that so?" The pirate leans towards Sanji. He's about to say something else but one of his drinking buddies stops him by putting an arm on his shoulder in a meaningful manner.

"How can you tell?" the other man asks. His voice is bright, filled with genuine curiosity. He hopes to learn something interesting about the mysterious beauty in red.

But Sanji isn't willing to share his secrets. "Comes with experience," he says in an interested voice. Then, to the pirates' dismay, he winks at them and goes back to wiping down his workplace.

"Gentlemen."

A familiar voice makes Sanji immediately look up from the counter he's been cleaning. With grace that only befits someone confident, you politely nod at the three men by the bar and make your way to Sanji. The pirates' eyes linger on you like the perceptive eyes of predators.

His hands move quickly and swiftly as he makes you a drink, knowing exactly what you opt for in similar circumstances - fake "bougie" parties that are insufferable while sober.

"King's Jubilee for my one true queen," he announces while sliding the cocktail glass towards you.

Looking at the drink, you purse your lips having noticed something.

"It's missing the cherry," you point out.

With faux humility, he places a hand over his heart. The heavy rings on his fingers shine slightly in the twilight of the open-air bar. "My most sincere apologies. If I may redeem myself, madam." He bows his head.

"Madam?" you repeat in confusion. "I thought I was a queen?"

Sanji chuckles in a low voice. Your wit and humour are only making you more beautiful in his eyes, always keeping up with his suave words and innuendos.

"I am but a humble servant, Your Highness," he drones the title.

The men sitting by the bar watch the scene with jealousy and fascination. It's beyond them how a bartender could one-up the most notorious of pirates but at the same time, they can't just look away from your flirtatious grin and the clear desire shining in your eyes.

Sanji takes one maraschino cherry out of the jar behind the counter and, holding it by the stem, offers the sweet treat to you. Leaning over the bar, you grab the dessert fruit with your teeth and pluck it from the stem, all the while studying Sanji's dark expression. He's thinking about something obscene, that's for sure.

Taking advantage of the short distance between you, he leans in to whisper something into your ear. The envious voyeurs can't hear his words over the loud music and laughter but they do see your sudden bashfulness. Your eyes momentarily cast down. Whatever that bartending boy has said, it made even a woman of your poise flustered.

Your breath hitches in your throat when Sanji places a soft kiss right below your ear, letting his warm lips brush against your jaw. Then, with weak knees and fuzzy thoughts, you take the drink and go back to your corner to continue meticulous observation of the more interesting guests.

Sanji meets the angered eyes of the proud, envious pirates. He doesn't seem to mind their hurt egos and the doom that it foretells. With a self-assured grin on his face, he asks them:

"Another round, my good gentlemen?"