#( she took that as a challenge- )

[almadelsur]

Art Donaldson is a titty man and you CANNOT convince me otherwise. !! 18+ Below !!

(Also I envisioned this during Stanford era but both work 🤷‍♀️)

Thinking about teasing art for being such a perv as you sink down on him after he takes you out on an expensive dinner date.

Thinking about how turned on he gets feeling your hot and heavy pants in his ear as you twitch and struggle to fit him in all the way, your tits practically spilling out of the dress that now bunches up at your hips as you ride him in the driver's seat of his jeep.

“You’ve been doing that all night you know,” You gasp out but it sounds so much more like a moan than actual english words that it takes art a few seconds to register what you had said. “Staring at my tits all goddamn night,” your breath hitches as you begin to move up and down on his aching rigid cock, but your words are relentless. “Fuck art, you didn’t even look away when the waiter took our order”

“That’s not true.” His words are futile. You both know it’s true. But you like working for it. You like breaking his sweetheart resolve and unearthing that animalistic perverted side of him that he works so hard to repress.

“No?” you tilt your head in faux innocence and he knows what’s coming. As you slow your movements and reach under the neckline of your dress to free your tits, he realises you’re testing him. He��d never really had patience for tests.

Once more you begin a rhythmic bounce on his cock, the one that has his ears burning red and his thighs tensing. He’s practically salivating at the sight of your tits bouncing up and down, up and down, up and down, right in front of his face. Your perky pink nipples begging to be sucked on. He looks like a dog being trained to wait for his treat. Your gaze drifts to his face, his eyes glued to your tits and tongue all but wagging out of his drooling mouth, he’d probably even bark if you told him to.

But you don’t embarrass him. And despite the fact that he’d probably like it regardless, you decide to be nice tonight. He put so much effort into your date night and it really wasn’t his fault that you decided to wear the lowest cut dress ever made.

“Go on puppy, get your treat.” You tease, pushing your tits even closer to his face. Art lets out a guttural groan beneath you and, although he tries to mask it as annoyance, you know it's all pleasure. Any remaining semblance of composure snapping inside him as he latches on to your nipples, taking turns to suckle between tits. He’s so messy and wet that his spit trails down your chest and leaves wet splotches on the fabric of your dress. Both of you ignore how, despite teasing him for being such a perv, it's you that leaks all around his cock at the thought of your little lapdog being so so so good for you.

Send me challengers thoughts pls pls pls !! I feel inspired to write again !!

[michaelwheelers]

Good luck, Champ.

[trappedinafantasy37]

Larian statistics got us like:

[fizzytoo]

[gingermintpepper]

I haven't read the Odyssey so I'm asking you. Are you telling me besides Athena, Apollo was the god who helped Odysseus and his family the most? Indirectly at least.

If that's true it's really a missed opportunity in EPIC.

No, no, the god who assists Odysseus the most after Athena is unquestionably Zeus.

Zeus genuinely has no problems with Odysseus and makes it very clear that he finds the man brilliant and would have already had him home and safe if he had his way, but he makes it clear that he's deferring to Poseidon who actually has the problem with Odysseus because, ultimately, the sea is Poseidon's domain and kingdom and Zeus doesn't intend to step on his brother's toes.

(Od. Book 1 trans. Robert Fitzgerald)

I'd definitely give third place to Apollo however. The big bug-bear about Apollo in the Odyssey is just that he's much less tangible than Athena or even Hermes who appears to Odysseus multiple times to help guide him/give him proclamations. His presence is everywhere though; like I've previously mentioned (and like he did with Jason) it's Apollo protecting Odysseus from Poseidon as he sails the sea after Odysseus blinds Polyphemus. It's also Apollo keeping Telemachus safe. His most vital role by far is when Odysseus returns to Ithaca in time for the challenge that will determine the next king. Not only is it a shooting contest whose first hurdle is to string a bow, the challenge itself takes place on a festival day for Apollo. Athena is there with Odysseus and Telemachus physically, but Apollo is looking after them in spirit, sending signs and signals to keep Telemachus especially safe.

(Od. Book 15, Telemachus warns about the state of Odysseus' house to Theoclymenus, a son of one of Apollo's prophets.)

There's also the fact that Odysseus makes sure to pray to Apollo before he attempts to string the bow:

(Od. Book 21. Beggar-Odysseus petitions to shoot his shot)

Likewise, before he slays the first suitor, Odysseus again prays for Apollo's guidance and gaze to guide his arrows:

(Od. Book 22. Odysseus commits the first of many (divinely-sanctioned) murders)

Also, as an additional thing, have Telemachus invoking Zeus, Athena and Apollo that he could see the suitors have their asses beat:

(Od. Book 18. Telemachus excitedly gushes to him mom about his cool new friend (Odysseus. Odysseus is the friend.)

There's a lot of minimisation of Apollo's role in the Odyssey because it isn't as bright and showy as his role was in the Iliad but hey, even there people tend to minimise how truly present Apollo is for the duration of the war when they're doing adaptations. Within Epic, the stage is already more than set for both Apollo and Athena to be there at the advent of Odysseus' revenge but none of that matters if that's not the creator's intention, y'know?

[backpackingspace]

Okay yes it's romantic and over the top and completely in character and very very impressive that odysseus made a bed out of living trees. However all I can think about is that every single day Penelope and odysseus would have woken up with olives and leaves covering them.

[weenieman25]

i feel like people constantly brush over how brutal clem is and i absolutely love her she’s my scary girlboss

[shokupanko]

╰(✿˙ᗜ˙)੭━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟSteampunk bunny Mayu for Mayu Monday!

[makenna-made-this]

BAWKtober Day 19 - Radio

Intercepted aliHEN transmission??

[apricote]

cozy little birthday for our heir. welcome to adulthood thomasin flores!

[star-ar512]

thank you for the suggestion @lstrs-lft-arm !!!!!!!!

[duusheen]

Sterling finally met with Abby to arrange when he could spend time with Noah at home. Everything went smoothly, except for the small detail that Hope was also invited to join but chose not to go 🙃

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[mintghostko]

Frida Big Mama's Assistant!

I kinda wonder how she of all people ended up working for Big Mama... I guess it could just be a coincidence but... well, we all know how Big Mama is... and spiderwebs can be so very tricky to escape once you've been snared

original Rise August prompt list by @sariphantom :)

[venriliz]

Portia Montez for @rainymoodlet's Rock of Love Bachelor Challenge! <3

in depth info + full wardrobe below the cut! ↓

✮ Portia was born and raised in Evergeen Harbor, an industrial port town known for it's huge import/export businesses and even more so - it's heavily polluted environment especially at the shores of the sickly brown-ish sea. The early death of Portia's mother directly caused by the affects the bad air had on her health has instilled somewhat of a love-hate relationship towards Evergreen Harbor into the then 8 year old girl.

✮ Her father tried his best to raise his daughter by himself but despite his long working hours in a local shipyard the money was barely enough for them to survive, the possibilty of moving away far out of reach.

✮ Early in her youth she found her talent and passion for skateboarding, winning many prizes in junior competitions all over the country. After barley graduating from highschool (some ppl just aren't made for the educational system lol) she became a promising professional and quickly made a name for herself in the skating community all over the world. Her biggest successes were two back-to-back street skateboard world championship titles and several self-invented tricks where named after her. Life was good for Portia not only professionally but personally too after meeting Davide Montez who became not only her manager but als her husband.

✮ Sadly, as the saying goes though - nothing lasts forever and about a year ago, Portia found herself forced to retire from competing professionally because growing up in the bad environment of Evergreen Harbor finally started to catch up with her own health. Her retirement caused her marriage to suffer as well and soon after she announced the end of her career as a professional, Davide called it quits and they agreed to divorce on good terms.

✮ Now with her financial stability and free time to pursue new things, Portia took the chance and applied for the bachelor challenge to win Jackson Roth's heart. This is mostly thanks to her friends pressuring her to try after catching her gawking at one of the billboards with Jackson's photo on it (i mean HELLO?! he's hawt! °-° she just... doesn't like the music lol). Portia is (somewhat) ready for a new adventure and maybe, just maybe she'll find love again! <3

likes:

colors: orange, red, black music: electronica, hip hop, latin characteristics: family-oriented, hardworking, idealistic convo topics: flirting, deep thoughts, affection, talking about hobbies fashion: rocker, streetwear activities: fitness, dancing, wellness, rock climbing decor: industrial, mid-century

dislikes:

music: metal, cottagecore, ranch characteristics: egotistical, argumentative, ambitionless convo topics: evil interactions, arguing, gossip fashion: polished, country activities: fishing, cooking, mischief decor: farmhouse, cute

wardrobe:

[diyasgarden]

Hi so to another blog, I sent in the request for gymteacher!patrick but now that I think about it, I feel like he’s one of those adults who secretly hates kids fgccjjjgffhhhj. It’s the whole vibe I got from whenever he was talking to Tashi and Lily was brought up like yeah he could say he feels awkward about the fact those two had a kid…….but I also just feel he hates kids 💀. It’s giving “fuck them kids, and fuck you too!”

ohhh i actually love the gymteacher!patrick hcs you sent @saintzweig. mars ate that up. if you haven’t read that, go do that!!!

i am inordinately fond of the idea that patrick doesn't like children because he can't wrap his mind around them as a concept. a tiny being who is still developing? continually learning about life? dependent on the people around them? it's overwhelming for him to process any of it, but it's all he can think about it in their presence. it also drums up the memories of his own childhood he'd rather forget. feelings he thought he long buried, but persist against his inclination.

so by proxy...i love the idea of elementary school teacher! patrick who took the job because it was his only choice. patrick who has been down on his luck and desperately needs to find a stable source of income, at least for the time being. teaching is not his first choice (and he's damn sure he is going to lose his mind), but it's the only job he could find that pays well. if he's going to be miserable anyway, he reasons he may as well be getting a paycheck out of it.

he goes in, does his job, and leaves. the other teachers are a bore, and he's to uneasy around the children to actually get close with them. ironically, his supposed indifference to the children makes them love him even more. he chocks it up to the childish curiosity of wanting to know more about the new, distant teacher, but the truth? they just like him. they like the way his language isn't filtered and how he mumbles under his breath. even the way he never breaks into that primordially passively assertive voices the other teachers have or never seems to have a solid plan. his behavior is new and captivating, but also makes him feel like an equal. in a way, patrick isn't a teacher they want to impress, but a friend they want to make. so while his goal was to avoid having any of these kids form an attachment to him, he's failed extraordinarily.

not to say he can avoid forming any attachments himself. i mean he sees these kids everyday, it's only natural to feel some sort of connection to them. it doesn't have to mean anything (at least this is what he tells himself). so what if he knows how to tie Lucy's shows the way she likes it when they come undone during soccer. or remembers to remind Aiden to take off his glasses before it's time for dodgeball. he's perceptive with details. basically has something in his head for every student, but wouldn't anyone notice (well again...what he tells himself). he's allowed to take some interest in their lives, learn about what they like or think. it's not a crime, nor does it have to mean anything. this is just a job and he still doesn't like children (he's started to repeat this to himself like a mantra).

the year goes on and his interest expands, much to his displeasure. they're growing on him, he can't deny it. he cares for all of his students, and while the concept of children still makes him uneasy, he's been able to push it down. focus on the joy the kids bring in the moment, rather than what their existence means for him. he enjoys being around all of them. especially the little, quiet kid who doesn't really talk much. always a little behind in gym, but really is sweet. and i mean just wait until he meets you...that kid's mom.