“Rayleigh san we finished sweeping the deck, can we go play?”
Roger sitting at the side: “yeah you can go boys”
The boys :“ Rayleigh san we’re done, can we go play?”
Roger: “i said you can GO!!??”
The boys ignoring roger: “Rayleigh san can we go”
Roger on his last straw: YES GO!!
The boys : Ray-
Rayleigh’s voice in the distance: yes you can go
The babies: thank you, proceed to run off to play
Roger watching shocked : but i’m the captain
Rayleigh coming to the deck: you either got it or you don’t 🤷♀️
Roger: …I can’t believe this. My own crew… My own baby boys…my own apprentices… They respect the First Mate more than the Captain. What kind of pirate ship is this?!
Rayleigh, chuckles softly and teases his Roger : A well-run one, Captain. Want me to tell them to listen to you next time?
Roger, throws his arms up: NO! I mean- yes! Wait, no- Dammit, Rayleigh! This is your fault for being too reliable!
Rayleigh: You’re the one who keeps saying “Just ask Rayleigh” when you don’t want to deal with them.
Roger, defeated, slumping back down: …Pour me another drink. I’ve been betrayed by children.
[In the distance, Shanks and Buggy’s laughter echoes as they swing from the rigging.]
Roger, muttering: Little punks… When I become Pirate King, the first law will be “Roger’s permission is enough, dammit!”
I love Josh’s anti-classism so much. I grew up in a single parent household that didn’t have time/the ability to cook. I taught myself as an adult and ended up loving it. I cook with this stuff a lot. Shit, the RealLemon juice ends up in a lot of my cocktails. Sure, I like fancy ingredients when I can afford them and I have things I get picky about using - but I have bad hands, mincing garlic is painful as fuck. There’s a lot to be said for knowing how to work with what you have. Don’t shame people for trying, don’t shame people for feeding their families things that they enjoy.
"Now I've shot so many Nazis, Daddy will have to buy me a sable coat." (From his Wikipedia article).
Neil Munro "Bunny" Roger
June 9, 1911-April 27, 1997.
Bunny Roger killed a bunch of Nazis and then invented Capri pants.
He was expelled from Oxford for his indiscrete gayness (discrete gayness being perfectly fine at Oxford and part of the curriculum until...today probably, at least like 1992?). Then, having been sent down to London, he started his own fashion business, and his first client was Vivien Leigh.
Bunny served in WWII, killing fascists in North Africa and Italy, and often wearing a mauve scarf in the field. Roger claimed that he had gone into a battle brandishing a rolled-up copy of VOGUE and commanding: "When in doubt, powder heavily!"
Roger was known in high society for his themed soirées; Diamond, Amethyst, and Flame Balls were held to celebrate his 60th, 70th, and 80th birthdays. He wore a curious plum colored catsuit with a feathered headdress at his 70th birthday ball in 1981. At his 80th, he made his entrance in a catsuit of scarlet sequins with a cape of orange organza, greeting his guests from behind a wall of fire. His parties were covered by the newspapers, including a New Year's Eve Fetish Ball where the proper upper class mixed with young guests in rubber S/M gear.
From an obituary: "Beneath his mauve mannerisms, Bunny was stalwart, frank, dependable and undeceived; to onlookers a passing peacock, to intimates, a life enhancer and exemplary friend."
Here are just a few terms that might be of interest to some of you.
Before the mast – refers to the sailors’ quarters, which were located in the fore part of the ship (the bow), whilst the officers’ quarters were near the stern. The term can also be used as a synonym for a common sailor.
Clap on – to increase power by adding more rigging or deploying more men. Also: to set more sails.
Deck passage – accommodation for passengers on deck when there was insufficient cabin space. Often used on short voyages.
Hail – a greeting at sea
Handsomely – slowly and carefully; particularly when handling ropes under tension.
Maiden Voyage – the first voyage of a ship that has recently been fitted out and is finally fit for service.
Salt – nickname for a sailor. Also ‘Old Salt’ for a very experienced sailor.
Slew – to turn something around its own axis: to swing a mast round.
Stand by – to be ready
Stave off – to push a boat or floating object away from a jetty or the side of a ship using a pole, a boat hook or a similar tool.
The sailor's word-book, by Smyth, W. H (William Henry), 1788-1865; Belcher, Edward, Sir, 1799-1877
The Visual encyclopedia of nautical terms under sail, by Basil W. Bathe 1978
nanami who is trying to work late at the office, tie loosened, glasses perched low on his nose, the lamplight carving severe lines of concentration into his face.
you’ve been distracting him for an hour—a hand on his thigh, kisses along his jaw—and his professional resolve is a thin, fraying thread.
“you’re going to get me in trouble,” he sighs, not looking up from his spreadsheet, but his voice is already warm, fondly exasperated. his hand covers yours on his thigh, his thumb stroking your knuckles. “this report is due by nine.”
instead of sliding to your knees, you stand and swing one leg over his lap, straddling him in the big executive chair. his eyes snap up, finally leaving the screen, wide behind his glasses. “what are you—”
you silence him with a kiss, grinding down against the hard line of his erection straining against his slacks. a low, surprised groan vibrates from his chest into your mouth.
“just… the tip,” you whisper against his lips, your hands working his belt and zipper free. “that’s all. so you can keep working.”
he huffs a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “that’s a… ah… that's not a good idea.” but his hands are already on your hips, helping you shimmy out of your panties, his touch urgent.
you rise up, grip him, and sink down slowly, taking only the broad, slick head of his cock inside you. you stop, letting both of you feel the unbearable, teasing stretch.
nanami’s head thunks back against the headrest, a ragged “fuck” tearing from his throat. his hands clamp on your hips like vices. “oh, god… that’s… ngh… you're a cruel woman.”
“i am?” you breathe, lifting yourself almost completely off, then sinking back down onto just that same throbbing inch. you repeat the motion, a slow, shallow piston that gives him nothing but the barest hint of penetration.
his whole body tenses, a muscle jumping in his jaw. A desperate, shaky moan leaks from his lips.
“yes… shit— y-yes, you are,” he gasps, his eyes squeezed shut. His hips try to buck up, to seek more depth, but you hold him down, controlling the pace with infuriating slowness. “please… baby, please, just a little d-deeper…”
“but your work,” you murmur, leaning forward to nip at his earlobe. you settle into a rhythm that’s pure torture—tiny, maddening circles, the wet heat of you sheathing only the crown of him, again and again.
you can feel him twitching, leaking against your inner walls, begging for more.
his moans are continuous now, soft, broken sounds that fill the quiet office. “I can’t… I can’t think when you’re… mmphn!… when you’re this tight,” he pants, his hands sliding under your blouse to roam your back, desperate for contact.
his breathing is coming in sharp hitches. “you’re going to kill me— yes yesyes— just like that…”
you watch, enthralled, as a flush creeps up his neck. you stop moving entirely, just clenching around that sensitive tip, a slow, internal pulse.
he whimpers. “n-no… d-don’t stop… please.”
“begging doesn’t sound very professional, ken,” you tease, but you reward him with another shallow, dragging slide. his head rolls side to side on the headrest, his composure utterly shattered. he's trembling with the effort to hold back, his knuckles white where they grip the armrests.
“y-you feel… nngh… you feel too good,” he rasps, his voice thick with a pleasure so intense it’s bordering on pain. “i'm not… i-i can’t last…”
you finally relent, sinking down another devastating half-inch. he cries out, a raw, beautiful sound, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “there— right there… oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck—”
you begin to move in earnest now, but still keep the strokes frustratingly short, building the tension coil-tight within him.
his thrusts become shallow, frantic jerks of his hips, meeting your bounces. the desk chair creaks a steady, obscene rhythm. swear dampens his temple. “i'm close… so close… ah! d-don't stop, s-so good—”
you wait until you see the wild, helpless look in his eyes, the complete surrender, before you finally, finally sink all the way down, taking him to the hilt.
the effect is immediate.
he whines, a guttural, unchecked sound, as his control snaps. his release is powerful, wracking his frame with wave after wave, his hips pumping up into you as he empties himself with deep, shuddering groans that go on and on, his fingers digging into your skin, anchoring him to you through the storm.
he slumps back, boneless, glasses askew, hair mussed. nanami stares at you, dazed and utterly ruined, his chest heaving.
after a long moment to catch his breath, he gestures weakly at the dark computer screen.
“you,” he says, his voice hoarse and full of wonder, “are a catastrophic risk to productivity.” he pulls you in for a long, slow, deeply satisfied kiss. “the report can wait until tomorrow, i suppose.”
I'm a pacifist like institutionally but I'm absolutely certain that violence solves at least some problems on a much smaller level. I don't believe in wars or nuclear weapons or military campaigns I do believe in the power of that guy who punched the nazi in the face so hard his entire media presence immediately crumbled to dust
