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lulublack90 · 4 months

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Prompt 27 - Scene

@jegulus-microfic January 27 Word count 991

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“Oh,” James said again, still slightly shocked by Regulus’s announcement.

“Are you going to take it?” Sirius asked ignoring James. Regulus’s eyes flicked between them, unable to settle on either. They rested on James a second longer than they had been. So many emotions flickered across his face that James struggled to pick one out.

“Yes.” He said simply. James ran his fingers roughly through his hair. They’d barely had time to figure out if they were going anywhere, and now Regulus was leaving for three whole years. James felt something breaking inside him. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he needed to be anywhere but here. So he walked out into the garden.

He kept walking until he couldn’t see the back door anymore.

He stopped at the base of the tree that held his childhood treehouse. After a moment’s pause, he climbed the weathered ladder into the branches, hoping it would hold his adult weight.

It was dirty up there. Leaves coated the floor, blown in through the open door. He used his feet to carefully push the leaves out of the treehouse, praying that nothing was currently living in them.

Once he had a space large enough to sit in he plonked himself down and sulked.

The treehouse itself was just a shed that his dad had somehow built around the tree. It was smaller than he remembered.

It didn’t take long for Sirius to find him. He called up telling James he was taking Regulus back to Grimmauld and he’d call him later before he left.

Once it got too cold, James decided he’d moped long enough. He began descending the ladder. He got halfway down before one of the rungs splintered in half. He fell with a wumph, landing squarely on his rump. He groaned into the night air. How had this day turned out so shit?

He needed a shower after his time in the treehouse. He spent a long time in there. Letting the hot water work out the knots in his body. His rear end was tender. It was definitely going to bruise.

Sighing deeply, he left the warmth of the shower, towelling his hair roughly and putting on his pyjamas before collapsing onto his bed. There was a note on Regulus’s pillow. He snatched it up and read the words written in Regulus’s elegant script.

I’m Sorry

That was all it said. James threw it across the room with a flick of his wrist. He closed his eyes and forced himself to fall asleep.

James woke feeling guilty. Regulus had received this amazing news, and he’d acted like a brat. He had to make it up to Regulus, he couldn’t leave it like that.

He went in search of his phone and a cup of coffee.

He found his phone where he’d left it last night, on the counter after the timer had gone off. The battery was dead, so he made his coffee and took it into the living room.

He had to wait a few minutes before his phone would be turned on.

Immediately, it started buzzing and didn’t stop as countless messages began to come through. Every single one of them was from Sirius, apart from one reminding him he was due an eye test. There was nothing from Regulus.

He sipped his coffee as he went through his messages. They started off as apologies for abandoning him but turned into urgent words, Sirius needing James to reply.

James quickly typed back, ‘I’m OK.’

When noon came around, and he still hadn’t heard from Regulus, he put on his shoes, got in his minivan and drove to Grimmauld Place.

Remus answered the door and let him in.

“He’s in his room,” Remus told him before he could even ask. He climbed the stairs two at a time and went straight to Regulus’s room. He knocked before he entered and found him curled up in bed.

“Hey,” He said, “I wanted to apologise for how I acted yesterday.” Regulus looked up at him, considering for a moment before he spoke.

“You made quite a scene.” He said huffily. James nodded, no use denying it.

“Have you accepted the offer then?” He winced as he said it. Regulus’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, I leave Friday.” He spoke in a very controlled way, revealing nothing.

When did you apply for it?” James asked. He needed to know it wasn’t since they’d been together.

“Why does it matter, James? It’s my dream job. You should be overjoyed for me. I’ve been working my whole life for this opportunity.” Regulus was getting irritated. His hands balled into fists as he spoke.

“I don’t want you to go,” James pleaded. He could feel the back of his eyes prickling.

“You can’t ask that of me!” Regulus's voice had raised, not quite a shout, but getting close.

“Why not? I love you!” He blurted out. It was true, but way, way, way too soon to say. Regulus didn’t seem phased by it.

“Yeah, and I’ve loved you since I was eleven. It still doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to America in less than a week!” Regulus shouted now. He ran his hand over his face, sighing in frustration. “Look, we can either spend the next few days together enjoying being with each other and see if we can make this work long distance, or we call it quits now and have a clean break.” James saw red.

“What’s the point of spending time together when you're leaving anyway? Might as well get it over with now.” He crossed his arms and scowled. Regulus’s jaw quivered. The hurt on his face was clear. Then, as if a mask had been placed over his features, it went blank. His eyes were empty of emotion.

“So be it,” He said flatly. James turned on his heel, slamming the doors as he left Grimmauld Place behind.

Next part

#January 27 #jegulus #jegulus microfic #james potter #regulus black #james fleamont potter #regulus arcturus black #sirius black #remus lupin #james x regulus #regulus x james #regulus and james #Scene

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year

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Idk if anyone has asked this before but how would the Icons react to reader getting stuck in a wall?

The Icon's Queen is stuck in a wall

Zizz is laughing at you. He's really amused, but then, he might be easily amused by anything you do honestly. The first thing he does after making sure you're not in pain is drum on your ass like the childish demon he is. The king will probably not be able to help himself and finger you into a lazy orgasm or two before promptly falling asleep with his head resting squarely on the plush of your rump. It's a weird thing for servants to walk in on, for sure.

Vesper downright asks if you've done this on purpose- But who cares, he's already rubbing one of his cocks against you. He's going to ask you for consent to let the imp servants fuck you one by one, with him going last. Maybe then Vesper will do something about that pesky wall. It's your fault really, you're always asking for it.

Vorticia is laughing really, really hard. Hah, you remind her of when she used to get stuck trying to reach certain cupboards. First you have to tell her how you got into this mess, then she'll torture and edge you a little bit just for kicks, until you're banging on the wall out of frustration. Then she'll order help and proceed to pretend as if nothing happened there. If you'd like to finish, then ask nicely.

Kalymir is another one that's barking out laughter, but he'll quickly start swatting a palm across your ass hard. After all, you're defenseless. He wastes little time before fucking you silly, and if you weren't sore before, you are now. He shatters pieces of the wall with his bare hands before he fishes you out for a proper fuck.

Rinx will take delight in stuffing your holes with all sorts of toys and watch you squirm for a little while. It's a steaming hot peep show, just for him, all for him. You're very convenient like this, you know? Maybe he should let you be. This way, he'll always know where his favorite possession is.

Cero can't hide the smirk on his face. How stupid do you have to be to get stuck in a wall? He'll quickly start making fun of you, though if you beg him to please free you, the Icon gets heated enough to fuck your thighs, making sure to come between them and on you without a word. When help comes to dislodge you, no one dares acknowledge the trails of cum dripping off your lower body as you obediently stand by Cero's side until he dismissed everyone.

Livius is a goof about this immediately. He'll muffle his tittering as he starts occasionally poking you, ignoring your frantic "Who's there?"s. This escalates to tickling and pinching, until he's feathering a finger over your clothed pussy and edging you closer to orgasm by rolling your clit mercilessly. He'll make you soak yourself in your own cum before he genuinely gets you out. Such fun.

#Cero oc #Zizz oc #Vorticia oc #Rinx oc #Livius oc #Kalymir oc #Vesper oc

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trappezoider · 8 months

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Happy Christmas

The snow crunches pleasantly under Sebastian’s boot. He looks ahead of him, picture fogging up from every interval of his hot breath, and smiles. He’s finally home. The snow still clings to him when he gets inside the house. The smell of ham and cinnamon enters his nostrils. “Uncle Sebastian! Look!” “What is it, Abigail?” Abigail’s soft, brown curls jump from excitement as she presents him a toy horse, led white, with tiny specks on its rump. They’re almost a replica of her freckles scattered around her nose. It neighs once, twice and stares at Sebastian with its bright emerald eyes. “Very good! Now show me what it can do," he says.

The horse spins around and goes into a wild gallop around the air. Abigail is clapping her little hands together in delight, giggling as it passes her.

"You're spoiling them," Sebastian hears.

Anne leans over the countertop, smearing a huge piece of ham in a syrupy amber glaze. Sebastian chuckles at her, and after taking off his robes, slides over next to her, giving her a peck on the cheek. He grabs an apple from the basket. It tastes funny. Not like an apple at all.

"Christmas is only once a year," he says and the apple is gone. Sebastian loves Christmas. He would have Christmas forever if he could.

"You say that every year."

"Do I?"

"You do."

Anne finishes the glazing with a light dusting of chives and shoves the whole thing in the oven, into the blazing fire. It chars into a black lump of coal.

"Uncle! Look at mine!" Simon squeals, voice high-pitched and deafening. He clings to Sebastian's mint school blazer and shows him the exact same horse as Abigail did.

Abigail is by the fire, staring into the flames. She looks like she's about to jump in.

"Very good!" Sebastian says, staring at her.

"Simon, I've told you to keep it down, haven't I?" Anne chides.

Simon's face distorts. It looks exactly like Anne's. Like mother, like son, like…

"Anne," Sebastian says and kneels in front of Simon. "Don't listen to your mama. It's alright if you're loud. You can scream."

"Please don't, Sebastian. You know how much Solomon hates it when they scream," the adult Anne sighs and she's rolling a pin over a lump of dough. It stretches into a perfect, cream-coloured square. Sebastian wants to grab it and throw it into a wall but his body doesn't let him.

"Happy Christmas!"

Sebastian whips his head towards the door. His breath leaves him.

Ominis stands there, snowflakes stuck to his long lashes and perfectly pomaded hair. He leaves his topper and cloak on the hanger, over Sebastian's robes. He's clad in a wine red suit. It hugs and drapes over the contours of his body in a way that makes Sebastian's legs buckle. Has he always looked this beautiful?

"Uncle Ominis!" the twins screech. Abigail withdraws her hand out of the fire and runs into his spread out arms. Simon follows her, and Ominis presses their tiny little backs into a tight embrace. Sebastian loves how his nose scrunches up from how hard he squeezes them.

"Happy Christmas!" Anne yells and offers him and Sebastian a glass of wine each. She doesn't have one herself. Sebastian notices how round and swollen her belly suddenly is.

Ominis' wand locks on Sebastian. He comes closer until their chests are pressed together, flush and warm against one another. The wine glasses break, shatter into tiny fragments between them. Sebastian doesn't feel it. The wine stain is invisible on Ominis' red suit.

"I love you," Sebastian hears and it's his own mouth saying it. "Will you stay with me this summer?"

Ominis smiles. He's looking straight at Sebastian. He leans in to kiss him, and Sebastian can smell cinnamon on his breath.

Their lips push against one another, ardently, feverishly. Sebastian's legs do give out. Ominis' tongue is slippery - it's soft and warm inside him, and it feels like it's all that Ominis has morphed into. The glass cracks between them with each movement and press of their bodies.

And then the shards sink into Sebastian's skin.

His eyes fly open.

He's in his bed, in his soaked through jammies, his blanket half on its way to the floor. It's already light outside; he can see the dust dancing by the window above the kitchen nook, where Anne had just finished glazing the ham. The birds are screaming their love songs. He's alone.

Tears start rolling out onto his cheeks. He brings his knees to his chest and an ugly, core cracking wail escapes past his throat and spills into his hands.

Sebastian wants to go back to sleep.

#sebinis #hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #ominis x sebastian #sebastian sallow #sebastian x ominis #gauntlow #ominis #sebastian #harry potter #angst #hurt #no comfort #only pain

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discount-shades · 11 months

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Dead or Alive : Prologue

Prologue: Hang ‘Em High

A/N: So it’s gonna be a western. This part is partially based on the Cody Jink’s song Fast Hand.

Pairing: Jake Seresin/Reader

Warning: Western themed violence. Brief contemplation of suicide

Word Count: 1000 ish

Summary: Jake gets a new name.

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“Whoa Jet,” Jake felt the noose tighten as the black horse under him took another step forward. He could feel the coarse hemp rope abrading the skin of his neck and restricting his airways. He glanced up at the tree branch the noose was looped around. It was sturdy and would definitely hold his weight if, and when, Jet eventually walked out from under him and left him swinging.

The thought of digging his spurs into Jet’s sides to just get it over with crossed his mind. With the life he led he was bound to die at the end of a noose anyway, why bother delaying the inevitable? He wiggled his hands again, trying to loosen the rope that had them tied behind his back but the rope just kept tightening and digging into the skin of his wrists.

He took another strained breath and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. Judging by the sun it was mid afternoon. He had been there for hours, sitting under the only tree for miles. Honestly he was impressed that the men who left him here had been able to find a tree in the dark to hang him under. With all the people he had killed, he was bound to run afoul of someone’s vengeful kin. Knowing this, Jake still felt that it was all a little unfair. After all, he only killed people that needed killing, or asked for it, no innocents.

The men had been relations of some kind to the kid that had challenged him to a duel in a little town outside Fort Worth. He had tried to talk the kid out of it, tried to convince him that it was a fool's errand. But the kid had been adamant, and more than a little drunk so, rather than get shot in the back as he walked away, Jake had squared up. It came with the territory. If you had a fast hand every cowpoke and wannabe gunslinger wanted a turn to dance, convinced that they would be the one to finally shoot him dead.

It had never been his plan to become a gunslinger. When he had headed west at fourteen, after he had put a bullet between his fathers eyes, he had only wanted to escape. Ironically it was his father who had taught him how to quickdraw. One of only two things his old man had ever taught him. The other being how to take a punch.

– – –

Jake was recognizable, his reputation preceding him, and when he had walked out of the saloon through the swinging doors the men had grabbed him, and knocked him unconscious in the process. When he came to, his hands were tied behind his back and they were forcing him onto Jet under this lone tree. The noose was already tight around his neck.

The moon was full and he blinked groggily at the faces around him. Now that he was on the horse, strung up and ready to swing, the men began glancing anxiously at each other. None of them made a move to smack Jet’s rump or fire a gun in the air to cause the horse to flee and leave him hanging. Hell, his own peacemakers were still sitting snug in their holsters slung low around his hips.

“You do it.” He heard the man with a bushy beard say as he shoved a man with a grey hat.

“I’m not going to.” Grey Hat said. He motioned toward a man with a tattered vest. “Bill, you lead the horse away.”

He watched the man called Bill shake his head and Jake rolled his eyes, glad of the dark masking his expression. Here he was ready to swing and everyone was too yellow bellied to make him. Self preservation kept him from mocking them but it was a near thing.

The men stood around his horse, and glanced nervously at each other. It was one thing to plan a murder, to talk about it over some rot-gut. But the cool night air was sobering. Jake learned that when he had finally gotten sick of the beatings and killed his father. For the first few years he had thrown up every time he killed someone. Now he just felt a little bit of his soul leave every time he pulled the trigger. He wasn’t sure how much of his soul was left at this point.

“We’ll just leave him here.” Beardy said eventually and the others nodded, all of them unable to follow through. Jake knew if he ever saw them again he wouldn't have the same qualms. They had mounted their horses and rode off, leaving Jake sitting alone under the tree. Tethered by a sturdy branch.

– – –

The sun was sinking when he finally heard hoofbeats coming up behind him. “Well look who we have here?” Jake groaned. He knew that voice. “How’s it going, Slayer?”

“Bradshaw.” He grunted out hoarsely as the riders rode around in front of him. He knew most of them only through aliases. The names they called each other while pulling jobs that needed more guns, when they didn't want their real names spoken. But Bradshaw he’d known for years. “You gonna stand there or are you gonna cut me down?”

“Maverick’s got a job.” Bradshaw slowly drew a knife and rode closer to Jake. “The payroll for that big ranch is supposedly going to be in a bank in a town south of here.” He casually flipped the knife in his hand. “I’ll cut you down if you join us. Coyote is already in.” He added mentioning the man Jake usually ran jobs with.

“Do I have a choice?” Jake asked and Bradshaw laughed.

“No you don’t, Hangman.” He leaned over and reaching up, he began to saw through the rope.

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman x reader #jake seresin/reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman #hangman/reader #top gun hangman #topgun maverick #topgun hangman #western!au #suicide

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blackjackkent · 3 months

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Not a particularly challenging fight against the Zhentarim. I'm pretty sure we didn't lose a single Guild fighter! And the most satisfying part was watching Nine-Fingers take Roah from full health to zero in one turn by throwing knives at her. XD

The conversation with Nine-Fingers afterwards is a bit strained.

"The Zhent are down. Just you and me now, Stone Lord. So if you mean to take my chair, you'll get no better chance than this."

"Minsc has no interest in your furniture, Nine-Fingers - only in the wicked rump that fills it!"

Uh oh. It didn't occur to me that a dewormed Minsc might still dislike Nine-Fingers enough to attack her regardless. O.O;

"...What?" the Guildmaster says, bemused.

"You have been a stone in this city's boot for too long! And it will be no Stone Lord who reaches 'twixt Balduran's sticky toes to dislodge you. It will be Minsc!"

Nine-Fingers shoots Hector a baffled look. "I haven't got the slightest idea what he's trying to say."

"Proof that he is back to normal, no?" Jaheira murmurs dryly.

Hector reaches out and puts a hand gently on Minsc's arm. "Minsc. Calm down," he says quietly. "The battle is over."

Nine-Fingers tilts her head curiously. "So the hound answers to his name again, does he?" she says - and the words are more caustic than the tone, which is oddly soft. "And you didn't have to put him down. Good." Her eyes fix on Minsc. "I'd rather you die as Minsc the mad Rashemaar. It's silly, but - d'you know you were something of a hero of mine, when I was young?"

Minsc's eyes narrow in puzzlement. "Even now your tongue twists the truth," he says. "When you were young and ten-fingered still, Minsc and Boo were stone, enstatuated on a city square!"

She smiles, just a little sadly. "Aye. I remember the spot - by a garden on the Wide. A soft thicket near the market, with ample pockets to pick. Celestia itself to a street rat looking for shelter." She shrugs ruefully. "You might not have been wrestling monsters, but you kept the wind and the rain off. Heroic enough for me."

Minsc clicks his tongue and blinks a few times rapidly, visibly affected by this story. "Bah," he says fiercely. "You try to dampen Boo's eyes! Do not think you will be spared his teeth! Evil is evil, even if it once was... innocent..."

Keene shakes her head. "Oh, I'm no innocent," she says dryly. "But evil... You tell me. With the Fist, the watch, and the Council itself all licking the Absolute's boots, who's the only one left standing to protect Baldur's Gate?"

"She's right, Minsc," Jaheira says quietly from behind him. "She's been an ally down through the years." A pause; she looks at the younger woman thoughtfully and her lips twitch slightly. "A friend, even."

"A *friend*?" Minsc cries, appalled. "Jaheira, Boo cannot believe his ears! Has the city fallen so far in our absence? Are there no heroes left?"

"Heroes come and go," Nine-Fingers says bitterly. "But the Guild has always been here, protecting the city." She gives him a cool glance. "Until the Stone Lord came to break us."

Hector has listened to this all in silence, trying to gauge the thoughts going on under the surface. He can see Minsc wavering, uncertain, ready to be swayed by the arguments being made to him. And Hector, in fact, believes those arguments are right. However - in every such confrontation in the past, he has leaned in the direction of encouraging his friends to confidence in their own decisions, a holdover from the traditions in which he was raised, which placed such emphasis on self-reliance.

And this is no different - and in fact even more salient than usual. Minsc has struggled, since emerging from his stoney prison, with the idea of his own choices; his dependence on Jaheira's wisdom has been obvious from the get-go.

Hector thinks Minsc will make the right decision - but Minsc must be reminded that it is his decision, and not simply Jaheira's influence directing him.

[INSIGHT] "Well, ranger?" he says quietly. "You cannot always leave it up to your wychlaran. Make a choice."

Behind him, Jaheira makes a scoffing noise of irritation - but Hector did not use the word arbitrarily. He said it deliberately so that Minsc would countermand its usage and thus assert his own agency even while listening to his friends' guidance - and he is not disappointed.

"Heh. Jaheira says she is no wychlaran," Minsc says with a slight shake of his head. "Perhaps not. But if she says I should not honor, defend, and listen to her, it is the only time she has ever been wrong." He pauses uncertainly. "If she trusts in Nine-Fingers - if you do - then so will Minsc. But that means..."

He trails off, and an expression of pain rockets across his face. "The things Minsc has done... I am shamed! Nydeshka, unworthy to fight alongside my friends! Boo..." His voice breaks with sudden despair. "What am I do to do?"

"I can't speak for your rodent," Nine-Fingers says cautiously, "but I know something of debts. If you reckon you've got one to repay, well - we could always work together."

Minsc squints at her. "With you? Minsc has no lust for gold, that he would shake grandmothers by their ankles or set Boo nibbling at their purse-strings."

"I'm not talking about that," she says hastily. "We've both got bigger enemies than one another - the city's enemies. And Tyr's honest truth - you gave my Guild the wakeup call it needed. We've grown complacent, lazy. Too sure of our standing. We never would've needed the Zhent if we'd had a fighting force of our own. Swords for the city, when the watch and Fist fail us."

Minsc blinks, trying to parse this, and then his eyes light up. "Like a berserker lodge of my homeland! No army or militia, serving the local lords, but heroes working for the common good!"

Keene smiles sardonically. "Heroes. Sure."

"Very well," Minsc says eagerly. "Minsc and Boo accept!"

Keene must see something in the Rashemaar's expression that she doesn't like, because she immediately starts to backpedal. "I'm sorry, you-- you what?" she asks.

"Boo and I will be your berserker lodge," Minsc says brightly. "Taking the ugly ways of your Guild and beating them into a more virtuous shape!"

Hector can see the immediate regret blossoming in Nine-Fingers' eyes. "That's... not even slightly what I was saying. I wasn't asking--"

Minsc flinches back, not letting her finish. "You are right," he mutters. "I have proven myself unworthy. I cannot serve the city if I was so easily turned against it. If I do not know my own mind... perhaps I no longer know what is good..."

This conversation has grown so tangled that Hector is not even sure what outcome he is arguing for anymore. But Minsc's distrust of himself still troubles him more than anything else. "Minsc," he says gently, "I'm fairly sure that 'good' is literally the only thing you *do* know."

He's relieved to see Minsc relax a little. "My friend... I am touched by your kind words," he says gravely. "And now I must be equal to them." He squares his shoulders. "What say you, Boo? When the Absolute is slain, shall we join Nine-Fingers Keene and show her the ways of goodness?'

Keene groans. Jaheira grins suddenly, lounging back on her heels. "You did say he was your hero, Astele," she points out dryly. "Maybe you'll learn something."

Nine-Fingers sighs. "Can't we just go back to killing one another instead?" she asks dryly, then waves a hand dismissively before they can respond. "All right. Fine. Let's leave this particular fight for when the actual war is won, shall we?"

She straightens, hooks her hands behind her back and looks at Hector more seriously. "With the Stone Lord off my back, I'll be able to bring my people out of hiding. Cobble together a force so we're ready when you call on us."

She nods slowly. "You have my thanks." A pause, and then the flash of a grin, indomitable. "Though I'm still not actually sure you haven't made my life that little bit harder."

Probably true, Hector reflects with some amusement as they turn to leave. Should we all survive this mess, I suspect she and Minsc working together will make for quite a show.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle

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allefendra · 9 months

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Chapter 1

Although the bonfire roaring in the town square obfuscated the sky, the sparkling array of the galaxy was still clearly visible to the sharp eyes of Dema Simondred. Her distinctive eyes reflected the warm glow of the flame with an inhuman, almost predatory shine, which only served to make the mustard-colored rings around her irises more apparent, but her skin, deep as coal, seemed to swallow the light. As a subservient canine might, she bared her vulpine grin to any passerby who glanced in her direction, earning her at best a muted scowl and at worst an unconcealed glare. The crumbling cobblestones beneath her bare feet felt cool despite their proximity to the flame. She wiggled her toes in a feeble attempt to draw warmth to them.

Something hard and sharp struck her between the shoulder blades and she pitched forward, windmilling her arms instinctively to keep her face from plowing into the ground. Her numb toes bent and flexed against the edges of the stones, and she thanked the stars her feet had already gone numb. With an involuntary grunt, she straightened, pretending not to be bothered by the now throbbing wound on her back. Slowly, she turned to face her assailants, aware already that she could do nothing to prevent their assault.

A group of children, none of which was old enough to be off their mother’s apron strings, giggled mischievously as she raised a rounded brow at them. One clutched a rough chunk of stone in one hand, a slingshot in the other, but dropped the rock nervously as soon as she directed the full force of her glare upon him. On the opposite side of the square, adults mingled with mugs of ale or spice wine in their gloved hands. None took notice of the scene unfolding.

Dema estimated the oldest of the bunch to be of maybe nine or ten winters, a wiry child wearing a pair of shoes riddled with holes and a dress stained with myriad colors. The girl held her nose much too high for one of her station, though Dema’s own station couldn’t be said to be more than slightly superior.

“You have had your fun,” Dema growled, “now be off.”

The oldest advanced, proving herself to be the leader of her ragtag gang. “We take no orders from you, Dema the Demon!” she sneered, somehow holding her nose even higher than before. “We will leave when we feel like it!”

“Oh? You don’t fear the demon, then?” Dema replied calmly, running a hand over her bare scalp. “I could haunt your nightmares, you know. Now that I’ve had a good look at your face, your dreams would be easy to locate.”

The child blanched. “You’re bluffing! None can enter another’s dream!”

Dema began to methodically stretch each muscle in her willowy frame, starting with her neck and going down. The children watched her anxiously, confusion plain on their faces. “Perhaps I am bluffing,” she said, a wicked smile spreading across her face, “and perhaps not. Regardless, I don’t need magic or trickery to deal with the lot of you. All I need are my two legs. I’m an honorable sort, so I will make this fair. I will give you to the count of twenty before I move. Use those twenty seconds as you will.”

The children scattered like leaves taken by the wind, a few squeaking cacophonous yelps, some down alleys, others toward the decrepit Forktongue Bridge, but all with the panic of the hunted. Dema smirked to herself, satisfied with her own ingenuity. Despite her lithe figure, she was actually a terrible runner, and she certainly wouldn’t have been able to catch even one of those children barefoot. Not only that, but she lacked the innate spark for Resonance, which was said to be endowed to no more than one in every thousand born. Demons, of course, were all born with Resonance, which is precisely why so many feared them, but “Dema the Demon” knew herself to be no demon at all. A child of foxfire, perhaps, but not a demon. Her lack of Resonance was proof enough for that.

She was still smirking when a rolling pin connected with her rump, startling more than injuring her. Knowing better than to respond, she stifled her grin and stood arrow-straight. She swallowed hard, producing an audible gulp.

“Mother,” she said quietly, clasping her hands behind her back and staring intently at her bruised toes, “I thought you would be fast asleep by this late hour.”

“I thought the same of you,” Mistress Simondred snapped, tapping Dema again with her rolling pin. “You might be able to fool your father with a wad of hay stuffed under your blankets, girl, but I know better. I heard not a sound from your chambers this evening. Usually, by this time of night, you would be dreaming and squawking like a crow. I knew something was amiss when I heard not a peep.” She paused, inspecting Dema up and down. “And just where are your shoes? Did we not just purchase a pair of sturdy shoes from Mistress Yohan a week past?”

“Father would surely have noticed I left had I taken my shoes, Mother,” Dema said levelly, still fighting her wry smile. “This was the only way.”

“The only way to broken toes, I’d wager,” her mother grumbled, staring concernedly at Dema’s toes. “You’d best hope you can manage to work tomorrow on those feet.”

“I’ve faced worse.”

“I’m certain you have.”

The two stared at each other intently, evaluating each other in the way of two wolves. After a few seconds, Mistress Simondred sighed and wrapped Dema in her fleshy arms.

“Oh, Dema,” she murmured, placing her free hand at the back of Dema’s head as she embraced her tightly, “you can’t imagine how I feel when I find your bed empty. I never worried so when I found your brother’s bed empty. Not until the morning I went to rouse him and the bed still lay empty. I still check your brother’s bed on occasion, when the longing strikes me too deeply and I lose my sense.” She pulled back so she could gaze into Dema’s eyes. “I cannot lose another child. I cannot. From now on, your bedroom will be warded in the evenings. I have no other choice. This foolishness has gone on long enough.”

“Mother!” Dema exclaimed, fury making her face appear even darker. “I will not accept this! I am not my brother.” “I’m sorry, Dema,” her mother said, a melancholy look in her gray eyes. “It can be no other way. These people have no sense. Today, they give you dirty looks. Tomorrow, they could give you a knife through your ribs. You trust too much.”

Dema felt a drop of something cold and wet strike her scalp. Automatically, her hand covered the top of her head, and another drop glanced off the knuckle of her middle finger.

Mistress Simondred looked warily to the sky and shook her head with irritation. Her eyes looked wet in the firelight as she turned them to the sky. A melted snowflake, or tears?

“Another of these snowstorms,” she groaned, and began rifling through the leather sack hanging from her belt pouch. “I tell you, this is Ribbin’s work. Who’ve heard of snowstorms in the ides of Verdance? Lucky for you, I’ve a hat for you somewhere in here. I’ll find it. But we truly must return home now before you lose those purple toes of yours to frostbite.”

Warily, Dema tilted her head back, knowing she would see no stars and lamenting their loss. Only moments before, the stars had been strikingly bright against the black velvet carpet of the sky. Now, she could see nothing but the charcoal gray of thick, raging clouds.

“Just a moment ago…” she began, but let herself trail off as she realized her mother wasn’t listening. Mistress Simondred was muttering to herself angrily, still searching for a hat in her absurdly large pouch. Large pouches had come into fashion, but no pouch around any waist in town rivaled the behemoth flopping at Mistress Simondred’s side.

“Ah! Here it is!” she said triumphantly, drawing a black beret from the bottom of the sack. It was mildly crumpled and would need to be reshaped, but it didn’t really matter. By that time, the only villagers who might see her in adequate lighting would likely be drunk anyway. “Oh, Goddess above! This isn’t your hat! It’s your father’s!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dema replied, ignoring her mother’s hypocrisy. If she ever uttered an oath like that to the Goddess, her mother would wallop her hard with her rolling pin, or any other implement at her disposal. “It will keep my head warm either way. We’ve a long walk home and I’m getting colder by the second. Can we go, Mother?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but stay close to me. There are brigands afoot this time of evening.”

As soon as her mother turned away, Dema rolled her eyes dramatically. In all of Forktongue, she had encountered not a single brigand, unless one counted the cutpurse who had once sliced her belt pouch. Unfortunately for the cutpurse, the pouch was merely a fashion accessory and held no coin. In the world her mother imagined, a thief schemed in every side street, a conman plotted on every corner, and a murderer waited with bated breath in every shadow. It was a wonder her mother had mustered the courage to comb the streets in search of Dema that evening. With that thought, a surge of guilt washed over her, and she almost conceded to herself that her mother had been right to set a penance.

“I’ll fetch you a hot brick for under your covers once we get home,” her mother said softly as they stepped into a particularly dark street. “You must be frozen to the bone.”

“I’m a touch chilled,” Dema lied.

“Why are you walking in that strange way? You look like a rod has been inserted in your spine.”

Dema looked at her from the sides of her eyes. “I hurt my back when I was working today. It feels better if I stand straight.”

“A pulled muscle, is it? Well, no matter. Tomorrow we’ll have our baths. I’ll massage your malady then. There’s no pulled muscle that can withstand a massage in hot water. Not when these hands are doing the massaging,” she said cheerily, gripping her rolling pin in both hands enthusiastically. She could have slipped the rolling pin into a fold in her apron, but she preferred to hold onto it whenever possible.

“No!” Dema blurted sharply. Realizing her blunder, she adjusted her tone. “I mean, no. That’s not necessary. I am sure it will relieve itself in the night. Sleep cures many afflictions.”

“That is certainly true,” Mistress Simondred replied, though it was clear only half her mind was on the conversation. The other half was scouting the way ahead, ensuring no threats would impede them. “Just another mile,” she said to herself quietly, as though to soothe her own frayed nerves.

“Not a mile, Mother. Perhaps half a mile.”

Changing the subject abruptly, Mistress Simondred said with renewed anger, “What were you doing this evening, anyway? What would possess you to make such a rash choice?”

“I wanted to see the bonfire, Mother. Sorzen is always speaking of it. I just wanted to see it for myself. He claimed the flames climbed as high as the Mayor’s house is tall, but I know now it was just another of his tales.”

“I ought to box his ears, filling your head with such foolishness. I should have known Sorzen inspired you to this. I’ll be having words with his mother, mark me.”

“That isn’t necessary, Mother.”

“Isn’t it? He knows you can’t travel around as freely as others, yet he natters to you day and night of all the sights and sounds and smells you cannot have. He is no friend to you, girl. You’ll learn that one day.”

In silence, they continued on together. Dema was astounded when her foot touched the silky dirt of Wayward Path. Had they not, just an instant before, been surrounded by the squalor of the city? The dirt path, just as cold as the cobblestones before it, somehow cheered her, its familiar texture acting as a balm for her injured toes. The light layer of frost over the dirt only served to magnify its soothing effect. Her mother claimed the dirt of Wayward Path was the ashes of Resonants burned long ago in the city square, but Dema had met none who could corroborate the tale. In some ways, her mother was as histrionic and imaginative as Sorzen, though Dema would never say so to her face.

In the distance, Dema could make out the faint flickering of candlelight seeping out from beneath the canvas curtain that served as the front door of her family’s tiny domicile. A silhouette crossed back and forth across the entryway repeatedly, which made the light appear to flash. She could tell by the bulk of the figure that it was her father, a man often mistaken for a blacksmith with his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. Few outside of the business knew just how much muscle a baker could develop through the rigors of his or her routine. Even her mother, a woman round and soft all over, had a thick layer of muscle beneath her plump exterior from long days kneading dough or lifting trays of hot confections.

“He’ll be as mean as a badger tomorrow,” Mistress Simondred said, smacking her rolling pin against her palm with irritation. “I told that man to take himself to bed. Why does he never listen?”

“I don’t know, Mother.”

“Not all men are of this nature, you must know. Some are quite excellent listeners, I hear.”

“Sorzen is a good listener.”

Mistress Simondred shot her a grimace that would curdle fresh goat’s milk. “Sorzen is a rascal of questionable character. If he cared a whit for you, he’d listen less and talk more. He’d talk you out of your harebrained schemes, at the very least.”

Dema shrugged. “I was only citing an example.”

Her mother put the rolling pin into her apron for the first time that night and whirled to face Dema. “Now,” she said, “not another word of your foolishness. Your father is not pleased. I would suggest against your usual way. Say neither a word of Sorzen nor any others among your companions unless you’d like your father to visit each personally with a loaf of bread.”

Dema shivered, and not just from the cold. Her father, armed with only a loaf of his fresh bread, could convince almost anyone of anything. She trusted Sorzen, but not so much that she’d allow him to be tempted with a good rye or a sourdough. “Mother, I am sorry. Truly. I never meant to worry you.”

“I know it, girl. It’s your father who’ll need convincing,” she said in a hushed tone, now just outside the canvas flap. With a strong hand, she yanked the canvas aside, revealing the interior of their home.

Her father stared at her wildly and wiped sweaty palms on his apron. Wisps of hair stuck out in every possible direction, giving him the appearance of a man recently struck by lightning. He was standing in the center of the room, in front of the hearth, which was as cold and dead as the soil of the Wayward Path. The only light or heat came from a solitary tallow candle burning on the dining table. An ornately carved rocking chair in the corner of the room was the most exquisite of their furnishings, while the other furniture was obviously scavenged from some garbage heap. Her parents’ bed rested against the only wall with a window, which meant it was always quite chilly under those covers. Her bed was located in the only enclosed room in the hut, a blessing for which she rarely remembered to offer thanks.

“Thank Allefendra, you’re alive!” her father boomed in a voice that reverberated off the adobe walls. He looked to be on the point of tears. “I thought...I thought…”

“I’m perfectly well, Father,” she said deferentially, lowering her head. The look in her father’s eyes was almost too much for her to bear. “I am sorry, but I had a good reason.”

“What reason was that?”

“I wanted – no, I needed to see the bonfire.”

Master Simondred threw up his hands in exasperation and plunked down onto the bed. It creaked under his mass. “I could scarcely breathe, Dema,” he growled, “I could scarcely move because you ‘needed’ to see a bonfire? If you wanted to waste your hours staring into a flame, we’ve candles aplenty. What you’ve done is deplorable. Despicable! How could you do this?”

Dema’s throat constricted. “I can’t continue living this way. I just can’t.”

“You’ll continue living this way, or you’ll not continue living at all!” he shouted, pounding a meaty fist into the quilt. “You shame your brother!”

Her face stung as though her father had just backhanded her. Tears sprang to her eyes, magnifying their eerie glow. She maintained her steady gaze on her father, refusing to disengage. Before she could speak a word, her mother placed a gentle palm on her forearm, forestalling her.

“You’re both exhausted,” her mother said placidly, as if placating a pair of scuffling toddlers. “This is a talk better had by the light of day.” Master Simondred started to speak, but she cut him off with a stern glare. “I’ve said what I’ve said and I expect you will obey. Both of you.”

Master Simondred shook his head in disgust. “It’s past time I started work. Dawn comes quickly.” He brushed off non-existent dust from his apron and adjusted the apron strings at the back of his neck. “Dema, you’ll be no good with the customers if you don’t sleep. Stella, you’ll need your rest as well. You can meet me in the morning.”

“Do you not think it would be best to open late?”

“Open late?” he scoffed, “I haven’t opened late in eight winters. I certainly won’t do so now.”

“Paitin,” Mistress Simondred pleaded, “you mustn’t do this. Truly, you ought not open at all tomorrow. I can’t imagine many customers will be in. Not with them all suffering the grog horrors. Besides, I could hardly see past my own fingers out there. It is cold as Ribbin’s breath. You’ve no need to be risking yourself out there. Which reminds me, light the hearth, you fool man! Have you not seen your daughter’s feet?”

He stared down at Dema’s feet, squinting. The light from the tallow candle was dimming each second. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Indeed I had not! Dema, child, tell me you haven’t yet lost your new shoes. I expected those to last at least a year.”

“She didn’t take her shoes because you would have noticed they were missing,” Mistress Simondred replied in a mocking voice. “Clever like her father, down to the core.”

Master Simondred beamed for a moment before coming back to his senses. “I see.” He grabbed his wool cloak off a peg in the wall and draped it around his shoulders. It made him look like a lumbering boulder with a head. “I’ll light the hearth, but the two of you must get to bed. You ought to get in the same bed to share some heat,” he suggested. “Clean yourself up, girl. I’ll not have soot in my sheets.” He passed her a bucket of frigid water, sloshing a few drops in the process, that had been used to collect the rain which seeped through the thatch roof. He stalked out of the shelter, almost stomping.

She compliantly splashed the water over her shins and feet, trying not to wince at the temperature. She took note of a sharp pain at the edges of a toenail. She’d likely lose that nail. As she rubbed the water over her skin, her mother fetched a minuscule nub of soap and a dingy towel. She took it gratefully.

Mistress Simondred dabbed a second towel on Dema’s face. It wasn’t dirty, really, but she continued to wipe at her cheeks nonetheless. “There,” she said softly, pushing Dema’s face up with a finger under her chin, “now I can see that beautiful skin of yours.”

Dema fought off a snort. “I am glad at least you take pleasure in my demon skin.”

“You are not a demon!” her mother replied furiously, cupping both of Dema’s cheeks in her hands. “Look into my eyes! You are no such thing! Say it!”

“I am no such thing,” Dema answered, though her mouth, pinched as it was, struggled to enunciate the words. “I’m tired, Mother.”

“As am I. Slip off your dress and get in bed. Your shift will do for night clothes tonight.”

Ice cold and mentally numb with exhaustion, Dema fell into slumber immediately. Even as her father lit the hearth, she remained asleep. Her mother snuggled up beside her, grateful to share the warmth. From his rocking chair, Master Simondred regarded his sleeping wife and child with affection, noting the similarities in their features. Notwithstanding the stark contrast in their skin tones, Dema’s face was almost an exact copy of her mother’s. He rose, kissed each on the forehead, and trudged into the blizzard, all the while making a list in his mind of each chore and task that need be completed at the bakery.

#writing #original world #oc #fantasy #wip #novel #fantasy fiction #fiction #female lead #adult fantasy #dark fantasy

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thenixart · 1 year

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[ID: Three pictures of a centaur with Black features drawn nude at different weights and facing left in profile. The centaur has long black hair, medium brown skin, black eyes, horns, and is wearing glasses. Its lower body has short black fur, a black tail with long wavy hair, a white rump and belly, orange-brown sock markings on all four feet with curly feathering, and grey hooves and claws. On the centaur’s side is a bright blue wing membrane running from the point of its hip to its elbow on its horse body that separates the black fur of its back from the white fur of its belly. In every picture the centaur has a bite scar on their left shoulder, a scar across their left eyes, and an animal-like ear facing the viewer that has black fur along the edge, white fur on the inside, and two gold hoop earrings on the lower edge. There is a purple square on a grey canvas being used as the background.

In the first picture the centaur is drawn with its hair in microbraids with blue, red, and gold colored beads at the ends of the braids. The braids are done up in a layered ponytail. The centaur is drawn as somewhat overweight with no visible muscle definition on its lower body, very little muscle definition on its upper body, and a soft face. The centaur’s horns on its forehead are small and skin colored.

In the second picture the centaur is drawn significantly fatter than in the first picture. It has a double chin, heavy cheeks, a larger chest, a drooping belly with rolls on it’s side, and thicker upper arms. On it’s horse body it has several rolls going down its back, a crease where fat his built up on its tailhead, small rolls on the joints of its legs, and a large round barrel that hangs past it’s knees and elbows. Their wavy hair is worn loose with a braid along the side of the head that ends in a cluster of blue, white, and gold beads. It’s horns are now much longer curved and covered in knobby grey keratin.

In the third picture the centaur is drawn at a weight in-between that of the first and last pictures. It is still quite fat but its belly and barrel are reduced in side and its rolls are shallower. It’s hair is done up in a large bun with a chain of blue and white beads holding the bun together. It’s tail hair is also tied up in a bun with a short blue ribbon. It has three long scars across the front of its belly. It’s horns are long, curved, and covered in knobby grey keratin. /End ID]

Finally! Full body nude refs for Dakari Ravslaut the protagonist of Prince of Gold. The first picture is of him before his marriage. The second picture is him about a year into his marriage at the start of the story. The third picture is how he appears several months after escaping from his wife after find out that she was fattening him up to feed him to a hippogriff and for the rest of the story.

#thenixkat #prince of gold #centaurs #dakari ravslaut #ocs original characters #black monsters #fat characters #black sf

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glvlvukcan · 4 months

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What Could Happen

(SOPA Images / Getty)

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Ukraine is fighting for the lives of its people and its very existence, and it is running out of ammunition. If the United States does not step back in with aid, Russia could eventually win this war.

Despite the twaddle from propagandists in Moscow (and a few academics in the United States), Russia’s war is not about NATO, or borders, or the balance of power. The Russian dictator Vladimir Putin intends to absorb Ukraine into a new Russian empire, and he will eradicate the Ukrainians if they refuse to accept his rule. Europe is in the midst of the largest war on the continent since Nazi panzers rolled from Norway to Greece, and the Russian invasion of Ukraine is by far the most important threat to world peace since the worst days of the Cold War. In a less febrile political era, defeating Russia would be the top priority of every American politician.

The Republicans in Congress, however, remain fixated both on their hatred of Ukraine and on their affection for Russia. Their relentless criticism of assistance to Kyiv has had its intended effect, taking a bite out of the American public’s support for continuing aid, especially as the war has been crowded out by the torrent of more recent news, including Donald Trump’s endless legal troubles and Israel’s campaign in Gaza.

And so it’s time to think more seriously about what might happen if the Republicans succeed in this irresponsible effort to blockade any further assistance to Ukraine. The collapse and dismemberment of a nation of millions is immediately at stake, and that should be enough for any American to be appalled at the GOP’s obstructionism. But the peace of the world itself could rest on what Congress does—or does not do—next.

First, what would it even mean for Russia to “win”? A Russian victory does not require sending Moscow’s tanks into Kyiv, even if that were possible. (The Russians have taken immense losses in manpower and armor, and they would have to fight house-to-house as they approached the capital.) Putin is reckless and a poor strategist, but he is not stupid: He knows that he doesn’t need to plant the Russian flag on the Mother Ukraine statue just yet. He can instead tear Ukraine apart, piece by piece.

The destruction of Ukraine would begin with some kind of cease-fire offered by a Ukrainian leadership that has literally run out of bullets, bombs, and bodies. (The average age of Ukraine’s soldiers is already over 40; there are not that many more men to draft.) The Russians would signal a willingness to deal only with a new Ukrainian regime, perhaps some “government of national salvation” that would exist solely to save whatever would be left of a rump Ukrainian state in the western part of the country while handing everything else over to the Kremlin.

The Russians would then dictate more terms: The United States and NATO would be told to pound sand. Ukraine would have to destroy its weapons and convert its sizable army into a small and weak constabulary force. Areas under Russian control would become, by fiat, parts of Russia. The remaining thing called “Ukraine” would be a demilitarized puppet state, kept from integration of any kind with Europe; in a few years, an internal putsch or a Russian-led coup could produce a new government that would request final union with the Russian Federation. Soon, Ukraine would be part of a new Russian superstate, with Russian forces on NATO’s borders as “peacekeepers” or “border guards,” a ploy the Russians have used in Central Asia since the 1990s.

Imagine the world as Putin (and other dictators, including in China) might see it even a few years from now if Russia wins in 2024: America stood by, paralyzed and shamed, as Ukraine was torn to pieces, as millions of people and many thousands of square miles were added to the Kremlin’s empire, and as U.S. alliances in Europe and then around the world quietly disintegrated—all of which will be even more of a delight in Moscow and Beijing if Americans decide to add the ultimate gift of voting the ignorant and isolationist Trump back into the White House.

The real danger for the U.S. and Europe would begin after Ukraine is crushed, when only NATO would remain as the final barrier to Putin’s dreams of evolving into a new emperor of Eurasia. Putin has never accepted the legitimate existence of Ukraine, but like the unreformed Soviet nostalgist that he is, he has a particular hatred for NATO. After the collapse of Ukraine, he would want to take bolder steps to prove that the Atlantic Alliance is an illusion, a lie promulgated by cowards who would never dare to stop the Kremlin from reclaiming its former Soviet and Russian imperial possessions.

Reckless and emboldened, emotional and facing his own mortality, Putin would be tempted to extend his winning streak and try one last throw of the dice, this time against NATO itself. He would not try to invade all of Europe; he would instead seek to replicate the success of his 2014 capture of Crimea—only this time on NATO territory. Putin might, for example, declare that his commitment to the Russian-speaking peoples of the former Soviet Union compels him to defend Russians in one of the Baltic states. After some Kremlin-sponsored agitation close to the Russian border, Russian forces (including more of the special forces known as “little green men”) might seize a small piece of territory and call it a Russian “safe zone” or “haven”—violating NATO sovereignty while also sticking it to the West for similar attempts many years ago, using similar terms, to protect the Bosnians from Russia’s friends, the Serbs.

The Kremlin would then sit on this piece of NATO territory, daring America and Europe to respond, in order to prove that NATO lacks the courage to fight for its members, and that whatever the strength of the alliance between, say, Washington and London, no one is going to die—or risk nuclear war—for some town in Estonia.

Should Putin actually do any of this, however, he would be making a drastic mistake. Dictators continually misunderstand democracies, believing them to be weak and unwilling to fight. Democracies, including the United States, do hate to fight—until roused to action. Republicans might soon succeed in forcing the United States to abandon Ukraine, but if fighting breaks out in Europe between Russia and America’s closest allies—old and new—no one, not even a President Trump, who has expressed his hostility to NATO and professed his admiration for Putin, is going to be able to keep the United States out of the battle, not least because U.S. forces will inevitably be among NATO’s casualties.

And at that point, anything could happen. The world, should Russia win, will face remarkable new dangers—and for what? Because in 2024 some astonishingly venal and ambitious politicians wanted to hedge their bets and kiss Trump’s ring one more time? Perhaps enough Republicans will come to their senses in time to avert these possible outcomes. If they do not, future historians—that is, if anyone is left to record what happened—will be perplexed at how a small coterie of American politicians were so willing to trade the safety of the planet for a few more years of power.

From The Atlanic Newsletter Feb 9th 2024

#politics #gop #donald trump #ukraine #russia

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tawneybel · 1 year

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Note: “Izzy Bohen x fem!reader x Jake (I forgot his last name but they’re both from Jeepers creepers 2) love triangle? I do like some rivalry. You can add the creeper if you want as well, make it into a love square? *wiggle eyebrows*” Turned this into a love (?) pentagon, because Dante 🤤.

Imagine Izzy and Jake competing for your affection.

You counted yourself and the boys lucky that Izzy just reported for the Bannon Bantams. If he’d played for them, well, he and Jake would have the cockfight of the century.

Izzy’d been disappointed when you’d opted for cheer squad instead of the newspaper. But you’d assured him the front row seats were worth it. He agreed, expression thoughtful.

Jake’d been psyched. Had even suggested the Bannon Banner do a feature. Which you shied away from, not wanting to kick off the season with resentful teammates. Of course, Jake had given Izzy shit. And continued to give him shit, all because of-

“-so much ink, huh? I’m serious, people are starting to think you’re sweet on him.”

Oh, Dante.

Izzy did write about him a bit. But that was mostly due to the reporter’s rivalry with Jake. How much messier it would be if Dante was thrown into the mix! Or if it was even just a love triangle with Dante. Izzy/You/Dante. Jake/You/Dante. Izzy/Dante/Jake.

Good thing, you figured, glancing everywhere but skyward, no one else was seriously interested in you or Dante or Jake-

“Really? I heard that was you.”

Time to step in. Bucky noticed you stroll up from behind before the other two did.

“There are no urinals… out here,” you greeted, gesturing at the vast farmland. “Why you all together?”

The team manager had already slunk off. Not because he didn’t like you. Bucky just found Jake to be more a cocksore loser around crushes. The jock at least looked slightly embarrassed. For a sec.

“Hey, ______.” Jake made no effort to conceal himself. “Caught me with my pants down.”

“Don’t turn around,” you teased. “Or get any ideas,” grumbled Izzy, pants zipped as he faced you.

“No, here’s one. Why don’t you write about a pretty girl for once?”

“What, I thought you were jealous I don't write enough about you?”

Their squabbling ceased after boarding the bus. The rivalry was still there, strong as ever, but Jake and Izzy at least sat far apart. The latter kept casting longing glances back. Dante was on the same side as you, but farther back. You could only imagine the shitstorm if you’d asked to sit next to the player with the most “ink.” Maybe he’d mediate.

Yeah, right.

A few glimpses into Rhonda’s compact mirror revealed Jake was also yearning. His eyes drifted between you and… Dante?

An image of you and him, lips locked, squeezed between Jake and Izzy popped into your head. The compact fell into your lap. You nonchalantly passed it back to Rhonda. Dante’s pretty face wasn’t likely to be within kissing distance anytime soon.

You had volunteered as a junior bus monitor for the elementary school, as part of a class. This experience came in handy when you begged Betty to let you help lay road flares. Anything to get away from crushes and admirers for a minute.

Unfortunately, Coach Hanna was spontaneously raptured and you, knocked onto your *ss after something smacked your ass, only narrowly avoided rolling out of the way after his flare dropped. You remained still. The others were talking, but the mounting horror was too distracting.

“______?!”

“I’m okay!”

Betty went to help while Barnes called out for the other coach. You shakily got to your feet. The driver continued to lay flares as she approached, before she too was ripped off the face of the earth. But not before the assailant made your rump smart again.

Note: Pluto TV kept glitching, so I couldn’t rewatch it completely. :(

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realreulbbrband · 7 months

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what kind of kitty dates do you think victeazer would go on?

OOOO love this question!!

I think it changes dramatically based on who plans.

Victoria's more romantic, so naturally she likes to plan most of their dates. She prefers more quiet and classic romantic dates, like having a picnic on a meadow and cloud watching. Or if we're going their 100% cat realism probably picking flowers in her owners' garden with Rumpleteazer, and making flower crowns and bracelets. Most of the time though Victoria will give Rump subtle hints about when she wants her to ask her out and a preferable place. Like "just so happening to mention" a new fountain at the town square she'd love to dance at and ofc Rumpleteazer always follows through.

As for Rumpleteazer, she's more the type of cat to plan the day of and hope everything goes smoothly. I can see her hearing some close friends of hers stating they plan to go out and asking if her and Victoria could tag along too. (I could mainly see her doing that with Mungojerrie and *insert whoever you ship him with* or even Tuggoffelees). Other than that Rump generally likes to take Victoria to her own human's house to just have fun together. bouncing on the bed, racing across the halls, climbing the highest bookshelf, see who can handstand the longest. etc. But that's probably because I see Rumpleteazer's love language being quality time.

#Thank you for the ask!#cats the musical #victoria the white cat #rumpleteazer #victeazer #headcanons

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pwlanier · 11 months

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A painted pottery figure of a caparisoned horse, Northern Wei dynasty (386-534)

Well modelled standing four-square on a rectangular base, with a gracefully arched neck and a small head crisply detailed with flared nostrils, open mouth and pricked ears, the broad rump protected by leather strapwork armour suspending foliate tassels, the neck and back similarly spanned by tassel-strung straps, the back covered with a saddle draped with a cloth, with fringed ends gathering in folds each side of the saddle above a flared mud-guard combed with markings in imitation of fur, traces of pigment.

Courtesy Alain Truong

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spottyissleepwalking · 1 year

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Stonefur design pls

Stonefur seems to be quite popular!! Funny, since I’ve personally never thought much of canon Stonefur ^^’

Design notes:

Build is very much RiverClan; very sturdy and thickset, small ears, thick, fluffy fur. ThunderClan traits include unusually long legs for a RiverClanner, alongside his coloring/markings that really betray his parentage.

Colorpoint lad! While he’s more brown-toned, he’s still gray-furred like his mother’s side; gets a lot of physical traits from Bluestar. Actually takes even more after Goosefeather!

Canonically can take on multiple cats at once, so I gave him a handful of scars and torn ears to show how battle-weathered he is.

Pale, round, “stone-like” mark at his forehead.

Large, thick, pale paws.

LGBT+ headcanon: Cis, aromantic-bisexual tom who uses he/him pronouns.

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Stonefur, sitting upright and facing the “camera” with his face angled slightly downward; the entire image is outlined in white. He is a thickset, stocky, muscular pale gray-brown colorpoint cat with darker tabby markings along his legs, face, rump, and ears; he has short, small, somewhat rounded ears that are heavily nicked; his tail is long and thick, mostly dark with a white tip; his face is slightly scarred, with one resting over his left eye and one across the bridge of his nose. His mane, paws, muzzle and tail-tip are white, with a distinctive oval mark between his brows at his forehead; his eyes are somewhat squared and dark gray-blue. At the base of his tail is his color palette, and beside his head to the right is the word “STONEFUR” written in white all-caps. Across his paws is the stylized artist signature of “spottyissleepwalking” written in faded lavender. / End ID.]

#warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats design #warriors designs #warriors design #warrior cats designs #spotty’s designs #stonekit #stonepaw #stonefur #riverclan #thunderclan #half clan

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firstdegreefangirl · 1 year

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It Only Takes a Taste (when it's something special)

Theme: Day Seven - Gingerbread/Cookies/Sweets @12daysofchristmas

Fandom/Character(s): Tim Bradford/Lucy Chen (The Rookie)

Word Count: 944

Ao3 link here!

Lucy pushes open the front door of Tim’s house – not quite their house, not yet, but it’s feeling more and more like it every day – and drops her work bag down carefully before she crouches to untie her shoes.

She doesn’t say anything, but she usually doesn’t have to. Most afternoons, Kojo meets her at the door, with Tim not far behind. His truck is in the driveway, and the leash is on the hook, so they’re not at the park, or out for a walk.

“Kojo?” She calls out, standing back up. “Tim?”

“In here!” She relaxes at the sound of his voice, calm and steady and unpanicked. Not that there seems to be a reason to panic, but in the few seconds that she’d been here, her mind had started to race.

She takes a deep breath, to calm down a little further, on her way to the kitchen.

A wave of fantastic aroma washes over her. There’s something in the air, warmer and sharper than any candle has ever been. It’s a little bit spicy, a little bit sweet. There’s definitely cinnamon, but she doesn’t think that’s all. She can’t pin down the rest from a single whiff, but there’s something else there too.

She makes it into the kitchen just in time to see Tim pulling a baking sheet out of the oven.

“Hey.” He looks up when she walks in, sliding the pan onto the countertop as his face breaks into a wide, easy grin. Kojo doesn’t move his gaze from the counter, but his rump wiggles back and forth, so Lucy is sure he knows she’s there.

“Hey.” She comes around the island to wrap her arms around Tim’s middle. One of his drapes across her shoulder, a chunky oven mitt still covering his hand. “What’s all this?”

“Cookies. Gingerbread men. Or, well, they were going to be men, but I couldn’t find the cutter. So … gingerbread squares. It’s in the attic, probably, in one of the boxes. But the dough was ready, and my assistant wasn’t so patient.” Lucy feels him lean back to look at the dog. “Were you, buddy?”

“I didn’t know you bake.” There’s no judgment in her voice. Truly, she’s impressed. Just … surprised. Since they’ve been dating, Tim has cooked dinner for her on many occasions (and non-occasions too, just because he wants to take care of her). But until today, she’s never seen him bake anything that wasn’t a cut of meat or a roasted vegetable.

“I don’t,” he says, stepping away from her so he can pick up a small spatula. He slides it underneath the cookies, one by one, setting them onto a waiting tea towel. Lucy watches quietly, like she’d risk everything by interrupting his careful work.

She doesn’t say anything until he turns back to the island and starts pressing down on a ball of dark brown dough she’s only just noticing. He picks up a rolling pin and works in smooth, even strokes to turn the dough into a thin slab.

“Oh, OK,” Lucy doesn’t try to hide her amusement. “What’s all this, then?”

Tim trades the rolling pin for a paring knife. “I’m making gingerbread.”

He cuts the dough into long rows, then slices it into neat little tiles.

“And that’s not baking?”

“Hush, I’m trying to focus.” It’s not an order, though. Lucy steps closer and watches him reach for a bowl.

“What’s that?”

“Sugar. Turbinado, actually. It’s less refined, and the crystals are bigger. A little sweetness to offset the ginger, and the bigger pieces give it a little crunch.”

“He says he doesn’t bake,” Lucy looks at Kojo, who’s still watching Tim’s every move. “But the man knows different types of sugar.”

“I don’t bake,” Tim repeats.

“Says the man putting cookies on a tray.”

“Fine. I bake one thing. Once a year. That hardly qualifies it as a hobby. Wait your turn,” he addresses this part to Kojo, who’s just started whining next to him. “You can’t have these, there’s nutmeg. Your special dough is still in the fridge.

“Don’t get defensive. It looks like you’re doing great. Smells like it, too.” Lucy takes another deep breath; the smell is stronger here than in the foyer, and she loves the way it bites at the inside of her nose. “Can I try one?”

“They should be just about cool enough.” Tim uses the backs of two fingers to test one of the freshly-baked cookies, then picks it up and breaks it in half. He holds one side of it out to Lucy. Instead of taking it from him, she leans forward and bites the exposed end away from his fingers.

It’s perfect.

The edges are crisp, but the middle section is soft and just a little chewy. There’s a sharp flavor, cinnamon and nutmeg and ginger, she knows now.

And yes, there’s a tiny, sweet crunch from the sugar crystals on top.

Lucy can’t help the relaxed, happy noise she makes while she chews.

“Good?” Tim asks, eyebrows raised like he doesn’t already know the answer, as he eats his own half of the cookie.

“Good,” Lucy sighs, letting him drop the other piece into her mouth.

She tries to reach for another cookie, but Tim catches her hand and uses it to pull her into his chest.

“Later. I’m making dinner tonight too.”

He dips his head down to kiss her, and once again, her senses are flooded with the warmth and scent and taste of dessert.

This time, though, there’s something more to it, again.

It’s the only thing she can imagine tasting better than fresh-baked gingerbread:

Gingerbread and Tim.

#katie writes #kw22 #chenford #lucy chen #tim bradford #kojo the dog #kojo bradford chen #Tim is the softest dog dad #12daysofchristmas2022 #12daysofchristmas #day seven: cookies/gingerbread/sweets

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mariacallous · 3 months

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What Could Happen

Ukraine is fighting for the lives of its people and its very existence, and it is running out of ammunition. If the United States does not step back in with aid, Russia could eventually win this war.

And at that point, anything could happen.

The world, should Russia win, will face remarkable new dangers—and for what? Because in 2024 some astonishingly venal and ambitious politicians wanted to hedge their bets and kiss Trump’s ring one more time? Perhaps enough Republicans will come to their senses in time to avert these possible outcomes. If they do not, future historians—that is, if anyone is left to record what happened—will be perplexed at how a small coterie of American politicians were so willing to trade the safety of the planet for a few more years of power.

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