#Andrea Ware

[wttnblog]

10 Incredible June 2023 Book Releases

It seems to be the month of genre fiction, but to be honest I’m fully okay with that. There’s so many incredible historical fiction and mystery / thriller books coming out over the next 30 days that I’ll absolutely be reading as soon possible! I love writing these posts because they help keep me up to date on books that I wouldn’t otherwise be aware of, and that’s never been more the case than…

[lesemausbuchblog]

Januar Leselust: meine Bücher für Januar

[reimenaashelyee]

New Alexander Comic update!! 🐏

The Queen seeks advice from the Egyptian priest, and he's got some interesting ideas...

A webcomic about the life and legends of Alexander the Great. 👁‍🗨 About the comic 📕 Read from the beginning 🛍 Get the print or ebook edition of Book 1

Historical footnotes under the cut:

... Time flies when one isn't paying attention, doesn't it? (or rather, when one had a final semester of postgrad, two out-of-state weekend festivals and a flu to deal with)

I am just going to give up on consistent updates for the time being in favour of updating whenever I have something new. @_@ The next two months and a half are going to be another whirlwind of activity. Some of the relevant pieces of those two months:

I will be tabling at Emerald Hill Comics Festival in South Melbourne on September 15, 11 am to 4 pm. More info about the festival on Squishface Studios' instagram. As for me, I will be selling my usual wares: Seance Tea Party, My Aunt is a Monster, and Alexander Book 1.

I am currently working on completing the script of Book 2 in preparation for a 2 week long group residency (Comic Art Workshop). If you can believe it, I have been struggling through the script for this Book since late 2019, as the story for this Book is structurally challenging aka it's above my skill level. Things are slowly starting to look up though, which means I am more confident about proceeding with updates.

Footnotes:

The serpentine dalliances referenced are:

Peniarth MS 481 30r (National Library of Wales)

Andreas Boscoli, Olympias, Mother of Alexander, Visited by Zeus in the Guise of a Serpent (Art Institute of Chicago)

BNF Fr. 50 120v (Bibliothèque nationale de France)

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐎𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥, 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐌𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐟𝐞

Something was coming, and it was on its way to you — there was no way to save yourself from the devil that set his sights on you, and you were hopeless against the whims of his charm or rugged ways. 

And in an act of gratitude and pure innocence, you allowed the devil in, none the wiser for what was to come; no man was without his sins, but better the devil you don’t know. 

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ꕤ Outlaw!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ꕤ 5.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ꕤ Explicit threats, attempted assault, non-graphic background character death, Grumpy!Protective!Bucky, fluff ჻჻჻ TROPES: Touch her and you die, Grumpy/Sunshine

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ꕤ Oh no, it's a Grumpy/Sunshine, touch her and you die trope collection in the form of a brooding outlaw — someone stop me.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ꕤ Way down We Go by KALEO ꕤ Broken Bones by KALEO ꕤ The River by Blues Saraceno ꕤ The Devil Inside by Daniel Murphy, Anthony Sanudo, Eric Serna ꕤ Deadwood by Really Slow Motion ꕤ Ain't No Devil by Andrea Wasse

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ꕤ @buckybarnesevents Build a Bucky Bingo ჻჻჻ Bad Reputation (February), Wild West AU (April) — Masterlist ꕤ @buckybarnesevents Alternate June-iverse 𝗖𝟭 — Outlaw AU — Masterlist

𝐑𝐮𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The bustling street that cut straight through the middle of the local livestock town as the main thoroughfare was overrun with folks going about their day. 

Men, clad in leathers and vests with holsters on their hips lined the saloon stairs, while women in an assortment of skirts and blouses rushed with baskets and wares from the general store; their children playing in the mud, dirtying their worn clothes while mothers shrieked their grief over the once clean garments. 

You couldn’t help the slight laugh that fell from your lips as you passed by a small boy who was splattered from head to toe in mud, his mother in a tizzy. “Now, Johnny–”

It was a pleasant day. A cool breeze blew through the side streets and over your sun-warmed skin. The basket on your arm was full of wares from your trip to the hunter down the lane, and the saddlebags on your old, trusted mare were lined with provisions from the general store. 

Though no matter how pleasant it was, or how many children shrieked with laughter while they ran around your legs in joy, something screamed in the back of your mind that something was wrong — an instinct long honed after working on a ranch since you were only a child. 

“Good mornin’, miss.” 

You startled from your reverie at the sound of a deep, rasped voice to your right. “Oh–!” The man smiled sympathetically, and you realised with a jolt that it was one of the old sharpshooters — a man well past his prime, but one of the very few that had a shred of decency and sense within the town. “Oh, good morning,” you replied, smiling. “Pleasant day.” 

He hummed in reply, and you continued on. 

The shade of the awnings overhead disappeared as you walked out into the muddied street, and you blinked from the bright rays — halos of rainbows danced in your vision while the sun warmed your face. 

From a way, a few stragglers from the saloon stumbled into view, and you sighed as you caught sight of the haggard appearances and putrid smell. You kept your head down and eyes averted as you neared their stumbling figures and scrunched your nose in disgust. 

No decent, respectable man stunk to the high heavens of liquor with a temper to match a lit fuse. 

The centre of town came into view, and the further you walked towards one of your last destinations for the day, the stronger the sense of impending something lingered in the air — it crackled with tension, akin to the static before a storm. 

Every single man you passed was twitchy, their hands migrating to the holsters on their hips; every woman was hurrying by, faces taut with some unexplained worry. 

Instinct — a woman’s intuition — insisted that something was coming.

You looked over your shoulder and cursed your past self for hitching your mare such a distance away. Her broad, muscled frame was no longer in sight through the scurrying crowds — the golden glow of her coat coloured with patches of white impossible to see through the scurry of people. 

“Oh, girl,” you mumbled, and you half considered turning tail to head back home. 

But the doctor’s office was only a few paces away, you reasoned, and you hurried along, resolutely ignoring the collective, worried gazes from the townsfolk towards the horizon. The muddied skirts of your dress fluttered as you trotted towards the clean building that housed the resident doctor, and the basket over your arm swayed with your gait. Best be fast.

When the heels of your old boots hit the wooden slats of the wrap-around deck, the door to the doctor’s office just within reach, it happened. 

Around you, the townsfolk fell deathly silent — not a peep, not a sound. Every last man, woman, and child froze in place and stared, wide-eyed and stricken, down the street, downwind towards the horizon they were so fixated on. 

Your stomach turned with nerves. The skin on the back of your neck prickled while your hair stood on end. It was an unnatural silence that pounded against your ears, and the blood that pumped through your veins turned to ice. 

Gravely unsettled, you blinked against the instinct to run and hide, in favour or searching for the source. 

The steady beat of heavy hooves thundered from down the street. Beside you, a woman and child gasped quietly — you paid them no mind, for the sight of two horses enraptured you. 

Muscle and sinew rippled with the gait of their long, lean legs. They walked side by side, the tack on their back, chests, and proud, handsome faces jingled and followed the contours of their broad flanks. Their coats shone under the light of the sun, but there was no mistaking the inked black beneath the splatter of mud from their journey. 

It would be almost impossible to tell them apart if it weren’t for the one on the left appearing far calmer than their companion, who snorted proudly and tossed their head. 

Your focus moved from the stunning creatures to their riders, and your breath hitched. 

The man atop the fiery, fierce horse clothed similarly to his mount. A rippling, black coat barely concealed the hip holsters that held revolvers with ebony accented grips, or the elaborate bandolier wrapped from his shoulder to his waist — the same black leather as his coat, but accented in silver, ornate imagery.

Rifles were strapped to the side of his saddle, long barrelled and scoped alike. From beneath his tilted hat, you could see the flow of jaw length, dark hair that fell in tresses to cover the profile of his face. 

A man prepared for war, you thought distantly. He held himself like a soldier — straight-backed and proud, guarded and eyes swivelling to take in the stilted townsfolk. 

Though you could not discern what was being said, you watched the man’s mouth move, and his head turned towards his companion. 

You followed his gaze and took in the other rider. He sported a blond beard and brown leather, his own coat shorter and far less impressive — a simple rifle and a hunter’s bow was strapped to his saddle, and his gaze was far softer.

The horses walked closer and closer, and the nearer the two men came, the more nervous the people around you grew. A few men skittered off and bolted down side streets, or plainly ran away. 

For the life of you, you could not understand why — they looked no different from the men that went rogue against the laws of society to take up arms in the wilderness. 

You were still rooted in place when they came so close you could scent the rich, cured leather of their boots and saddles, and you couldn’t help staring at the extravagant wealth that lined their person and padded their mounts. It was plain as day they were no strangers to wealth, but to be an outlaw with wealth? That was unheard of. 

It was only when they were right next to you did your ability to breathe truly vanish. 

“I don’t like this,” the blond grumbled, his eyes darting from person to person. “It’s too open—far too open, we’re exposed. You know what’ll happen if we’re cornered–”

“Enough.” Sharp, grey eyes met yours, and within the second of that glance, you felt your stomach flip upside down. The heart that hammered in your chest rocketed upwards into your throat. 

The stranger seemed to have an inkling for your reaction, or he experienced something similar — his eyes narrowed as he considered you, a piercing look that took hold of your wriggling stomach and forced it to still. “We’ll get what we need and move on. Calm down.”

You blinked, and he was no longer looking at you. Instead, his blond companion gazed at you curiously, tilting his head. 

“Move on,” the dark-haired man spat, and he nudged his horse into a trot. The slap from the leather reins against his horse’s neck was loud. 

Rather than spur onwards, the blond stared at you for a moment longer. “Rogers, get a move on.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, still staring at you. Blue eyes moved over your face before he turned his head forwards, then he followed behind his partner. 

When the both of them were out of earshot, you heard multitudes of townsfolk collectively exhale with what you guessed was relief. “We don’t need another shoot out thanks to those bastards,” one of them grumbled. “Not after the last one.���

“Shootout?” you questioned, feeling your heart slowly sink back down into your chest. “What– What happened?”

They regarded you carefully. “You don’t come down this way often, do you, miss?” 

You shook your head. “No, I live over–”

“Count yourself lucky,” they interrupted, raising their brows. “Those two are monsters. Don’t have the bounty on their heads for nothin’, and you don’t get any bounty hunters in these parts that go after ‘em ‘cause all the ones that do, end up fed to the wolves.” The bag over their shoulder was shrugged further up, their grip tight. “Just stay well away from ‘em, miss—not the kinda folk you want to get involved with if you want t’a live in peace.”

“But–” 

They turned away. Their hunched back swayed under the weight of the sack on their shoulder. 

You frowned at the retreating stranger. 

Sure, they looked the part of a deadly duo, not unlike the ones in your novellas or dreams, but they passed through the town peacefully, if ominously — that was the fault of the townsfolk acting as though death himself strolled down the muddied street. 

“I don’t understand…” A loud snort of one of their horses drew your attention, and you watched as the strangers dismounted and hitched their mounts right out the front of the general store. 

Everyone gave them a wide berth; heads down and feet fast over the mud to get out of their way. 

What a lonely existence, you thought. 

For the entirety of your life, you were regarded as a bright, intelligent woman that worked hard. The passing of your family had hit you hard, but you were determined to live up to their memory, to maintain the ranch they left behind and restore it to its full glory — only that took up far more time than you anticipated, and while it was still a raw wound, you trudged on. 

Being all alone up on your small slice of good ol’ Western soil was something you took pride in, but you had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that it wasn’t all it was cut out to be. 

The thought alone made you sympathise with the two outlaws — a life on the road, running from societal norms and expectations while maintaining the lifestyle they no doubt had become accustomed to, made even you feel a sense of weary exhaustion deep in your bones.

Isolation was not a weak man’s game. 

“Get it together,” you hastily whispered, shaking your head under the guise of shooing a fly. Your bright, generous personality would not help them, nor would it help you, you reasoned — not this time. 

With a heavy sigh, you pushed open the door to the doctor’s office to purchase some medicine and supplies for the coming weeks. 

The entirety of the town was still strung up with tension when you exited the doctor’s office half an hour later, according to your pocket watch — a family heirloom. People still rushed to and fro with their gazes locked onto the two black horses settled by the hitching post at the general store. 

It was a foolish decision, but you stopped to admire their fine confirmations and broad builds. 

There were no doubts on how war-ready the two were, though their docile nature threw you — never before had you seen horses stand so blessedly still and patient, even back on your own ranch. 

You couldn’t help but take a step closer, the urge to feel the silken soft coats that were muddied from their journey overwhelming your rational sense. There was no mistaking the fact that they were both stallions now you were beside them; finely bred and hardened for battle from their owners' tendencies for violence. 

A dark, mahogany eye met yours, and if it were possible, their face softened while their ears perked forwards. 

On the other side of the stallion you greeted, was the one with a white star. His eyes were far kinder and softer than the first’s.

The first stallion knickered lowly while you stepped even closer, the compulsion to be near overtaking you, and you held your hand out for the creature to sniff. The brush of his lips over your offered hand made you giggle. “Aren’t you two beautiful?”

They snorted in tandem. 

Suddenly, the hair on your arms stood on end, and the feeling of being watched spooked you into stepping back hastily. You glanced around to search for the cause, afraid for what you would find, but there was no one paying attention to you; far too consumed in their own needs to finish their runs for supplies or complete their jobs. 

“I have to go, beauties,” you said quietly to the two horses, who only blinked in reply. 

Your feet carried you swiftly away, but you glanced over your shoulder to the two stallions one last time, in awe of their strength and beauty. 

You weren’t to see the set of steel grey eyes watching you from the gunsmith’s window on the opposite side of the street, not while you hastened your pace to get back to your own mount and go home — where it was safe. 

People bustled and shoved against you as they made their own way, and you kept your breath steady and even the best you could. 

Shouts and calls of workmen and ranch hands followed you as you half walked, half jogged onwards, and halfway to your patient mare, you were pulled up short by the rotten stench of waste and liquor — a potent mix that would make anyone’s stomach turn. 

It was sickeningly close, and the source was a stumbling, drunken fool in front of you. 

“Oh, no,” you mumbled. The volume of your voice was next to impossible to make out among the background noise, and you were grateful — there was no telling what this drunkard would do if he heard you. 

His back was turned towards you, and you carefully hastened to walk around him, to avoid his line of sight, but his head turned just as you took a step to the side. 

The sudden appearance of a woman within his filthy grasp caught his attention, and the words that fell from his drooling mouth weren’t even intelligible. “Ain– Pretty girl–” A hiccup and loud belch cut his torrent short. 

“I’m just– Oh,” you gasped as the man pulled a knife and an old, rusted revolver from the inside of his jacket. A cascade of fear shut your mind down and locked your joints, the immobility frightened you beyond what you could bear. “No, no, please–” 

They were only small weapons, but they would do no less damage if he shot you point blank or forced the blade through skin and bone. “Sir, please–” 

“Gim’ money!”

“I don’t have– Please, leave me be,” you pleaded, holding up a placating hand. The fear turned your tongue into a lead weight in your mouth and you couldn’t speak more than a few words to plead for your life, which only infuriated the man further. 

He advanced, his steps stumbling and uncoordinated, and the gun he brandished glinted in the sun — a menacing shine of metal that you knew was your last. The stench of his breath made your stomach roil with sickness. “Good for nothin’ whor–”

Footsteps rustled and waded through the mud behind you, and the world around you froze. 

The drunkard’s mouth hung slack, wide with the shock from the sudden, cold bite of metal from the end of an ornate muzzle pressing hard into his temple. A gloved finger was poised over the trigger. 

Your attention snapped to the brave soul that came to your rescue, and your own mouth fell open in shocked awe — the same outlaw that sent the town into a terrified silence held his ebony revolver to the drunkard’s temple with little regard for the force behind it.

He looked inhuman with fury laced through the pale blue of his eyes. Malice and disgust radiated from him in waves. 

“Now do you really want to finish insultin’ this poor woman?” a husked voice asked behind you. You whirled around, the skirts of your dress fluttering, and found the blond outlaw standing behind you, terrible in his rage. “Robbin’ an innocent girl to get your fuckin’ dick wet at the whore house?”

There was a pregnant pause, only broken by the piteous whimpering from the drunkard. “I– I–” A dark stain grew over the crotch of his worn, stained overalls. 

His head jerked hard to the side as one of your saviours pushed the muzzle of the gun harder against the thin bones of his temple with a snarl. “He asked you a question.”

“What the fuck do you think you were doin’, you bastard?” The blond spat. “Answer me before you get a third eye.”

Before the drunkard could answer, you cut in fearfully, “I– I just want to go home.” The darker-haired outlaw’s eyes flashed angrily as he looked at you, and you stepped back on instinct, only to come back to chest with his partner. “Please, just– I am so sorry–”

“You aren’t the one tossin’ around a damned fuckin’ gun like it’s your cock, sweetheart,” the blond soothed.

A low growl of anger came from the dark-haired outlaw’s throat. “And pathetic men who disrespect a woman in front of me tend to lose theirs—by a fuckin’ bullet or a knife, your choice.” 

The drunkard stumbled to the side with the shove from the gun. 

“Buck,” the blond said, and you guessed that was the dark-haired outlaw’s name. “I don’t think this fella is goin’ to answer me.” A hand rested on your shoulder, and you jumped. “Whoa– Easy, sweetheart, we’re not the ones that are goin’ to hurt you.” 

The warmth from his palm abated the worst of the fear, and you followed where he guided you to stand — in his shadow that casted itself over the ground. “As for him, well…”

“Apologise,” Buck spat, nearing the drunkard’s pale, sweaty face. “I don’t care if I have to lose a bullet to get you to do it, either.”

“S– Sorry, miss,” the drunkard whispered, his voice high with terror. “Sorry, I–” He was cut off by the shove to the shoulder, and you watched as he clumsily ran away. 

Only, Buck raised his revolver and cocked the hammer back before a shot ran out with a cloud of smoke. The sound echoed like cannon fire off of the surrounding trees and sparse buildings — you could even hear faint shouts and screams of fear within the township. 

“Good riddance,” the blond said with a nod. 

“I wasn’t goin’ to let the bastard go,” Buck said lowly, voice still laced with a poisonous vitriol. He looked at you then and lowered his head respectfully. “Miss.”

“I–” You tried, but some force was making you tremble from head to toe — waves of flight or fight warring within your mind as you stood between the two deadliest men you had ever encountered. “Please don’t hurt me–”

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” the blond said quickly, holding his hands up and away from his holsters. “Name’s Steve, this here is Buck—or Bucky.”

You looked between them, eyes wide with your fear and still rooted to the spot with your pulsing terror. While you looked at Steve beseechingly, you saw from the corner or your eyes as Bucky shrugged off his thick, leather coat to reveal a white, long-sleeved shirt, and a black vest that had embroidery and filigree within the expensive material.

He was silent while he stood there, coat in his gloved hands. 

“Where’s your horse?” Steve asked, looking around. 

“Over– She’s over there,” you whispered, pointing towards where you hitched your mare. The bustle of noise had caught her attention, and you could see her kind face looking in your direction with her ears perked. “I didn’t think to–”

“Don’t worry, miss,” Steve assured, and he looked at Bucky with a brow raised. “You good?”

Bucky nodded, then offered his coat to you. “To keep you warm,” he rasped. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf.”

You blinked and almost dropped your basket, but Bucky rushed forward and caught it. “Here,” he offered quietly, passing the basket to Steve and holding up his coat — the inner leather was warm and rich with his scent, and you couldn’t help but burrow into the comfort it provided. 

The basket with all of your wares hung from Steve’s arm. “We’ll take you home, then be on our way—that alright, miss?” 

Bucky was still working the large coat over your shoulders until he was satisfied it would sit comfortably. “I– I don’t know–” The journey home was a long one, and you wouldn’t say no to the safety their company would provide, but the problem of your trembling limbs made you doubt whether you would be able to stay in the saddle for long at all. 

The two of them seemed to catch on to your concern. 

Steve frowned and glanced at Bucky, who was wordlessly staring at your hands. “You can hop on behind Buck—your mare can follow behind, I’ve got her.”

Without another word, Steve started to walk towards their two mounts that were waiting a few feet away — you hadn’t even noticed them. 

Bucky glanced up at your face while you stared into his, and he smiled slightly. The ice that had settled in your stomach inexplicably melted away with the softness of his gaze. You followed behind him as he led you to their stallions. 

The shadow from a building beside them made their coats even darker, and the bigger of the two started to walk forwards at the sight of you approaching with one of their number. It was the same horse that affectionately brushed his lips over your hand out the front of the general store.

“Oh, hello,” you whispered, unable to help the smile that pulled at your lips. “You are beautiful, aren’t you?”

“Don’t give ‘im a bigger ego than his owner,” Steve chortled. The withering glare Bucky sent Steve almost made you laugh. 

“This is Rebel,” Bucky said, patting the stallion’s lithe neck and making the skin ripple. 

“Hello, Rebel,” you cooed, scratching his nose affectionately. Then, you realised you hadn’t given any of them your name, and when you glanced at Bucky after offering it, his head was tilted minutely to the side. 

He did not give you a chance to question why before he mounted Rebel and sat in the saddle proudly. “You can ride?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s grip on your hand was tight and firm, and he yanked you up from the ground with apparent ease. “I, uh– My home is a ranch.”

There was a pleased hum from Steve, and Bucky looked over his shoulder at you while Rebel’s hooves shuffled to accommodate the sudden new addition on his back. 

“Hold tight,” Bucky said gruffly. You rested your hands on either side of his waist, holding steady while Rebel’s movements were smooth beneath you — the reins were loose, and Bucky’s thighs clamped around the barrel of his mount’s flanks. 

“He is so beautiful,” you murmured again, just as Rebel made to turn around and walk towards your mare. On impulse, you moved one hand from Bucky’s waist to the dark coat behind your thighs. 

The inky pelt felt not unlike a luxurious silk. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, then he clicked his tongue. Rebel took the cue and picked up the pace. “He’s been through hell an’ back with me. There ain’t many horses as strong as he is. I’m a lucky bastard.”

You moved your hands from Rebel’s coat back to Bucky’s waist to hold on. Even over the vest you felt the heat radiating from his body, and you couldn’t help but shift closer.

All the while a part of your mind screamed for you to drop and run — a long, dormant instinct that arose with such strength you’d never felt before.

The two men were no doubt two of the fiercest you could have ever encountered, that was not for debate or contest — you could feel the strength of Bucky’s control on his horse in the way the mount moved with such trained ease. Not to mention the muscles that rippled under the long-sleeved shirt of his made you realise there was far more than met the eye. 

What held your tongue from screaming or crying for help was the way the two of them did not even bat an eye before shooting a vagrant drunk that accosted you, even though they had no idea who you were — just a woman going about her day. 

Not to them, you thought. 

You noticed the townsfolk that stopped and stared at the three of you while you passed them by, both shock and fear painting their pale, grime-streaked faces, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking. A poor, foolish girl riding with the most dangerous men.

“There she is,” Steve said suddenly, pulling you from your reverie. You blinked from the light of the sun, and found Steve pointing towards your mare, a beautiful, golden palomino who’s coat gleamed in the morning rays. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you replied, smiling softly at the softened gaze of your mare once she spotted you. “That’s my girl.”

“She’s a fine horse,” Bucky said as he pulled Rebel to a stop. “Stevie, you’ve got ‘er?”

Steve nodded and dismounted to unhitch her from her post. “You take the lead; I’ll follow behind with this pretty lady.” You watched as your mare was tied to the horn of Steve’s saddle, and she came into stride next to him with as little as a heavy sigh to acknowledge her predicament. “A dramatic one–”

“You haven’t seen the worst of it,” you laughed as you scratched at her ears. “Not in the slightest.”

During the journey back to your ranch, you couldn’t help but notice how silent Bucky was — all conversation and pleasantries were held between Steve and yourself, with minimal input from the brooding rider in front of you. During one of the longer stretches of silence, albeit a strangely comfortable one, you took a moment to consider with a keen eye how Bucky held himself. 

The man was truly a marvel, that you assumed correctly. His broad, wide shoulders were straight, only slumping when he seemed to grow weary — most notably through Steve’s many tirades. 

The black vest he wore hugged his chest and waist, accentuating the lines of his muscled torso in all of the right places, and it made you think countlessly of the heroes in your stories that lined the old, wooden bookshelf in your bedroom. 

His shirt wrinkled and smoothed with each movement of his arms, the tight muscle beneath making your mouth water. 

“How far do you live from town?” Bucky asked suddenly, and to your horror, he glanced over his shoulder before you could school your expression, or at least look away from the expanse of his back. Something flashed in his grey eyes, and you were embarrassed to see a small smirk forming on his full lips. 

The coat over your shoulders was a welcome reprieve and you found yourself burrowing yourself deeper into the warmth it offered your still trembling limbs, and you hastened to answer before Steve could interject — the blond looked about ready to cause more trouble. “Not far, just a little while longer. You’ll come upon my fields soon.”

He nodded and urged Rebel a little faster, the movement of the horse’s hindquarters jostled you into being pressed right up against Bucky’s back. In the slight moment of shock, you clamped your arms around his waist tighter. The fabric wrinkled under your sudden, iron-clad grip, and under your hands, you could feel the low rumble of his chest while he laughed. 

You rested your forehead against the smooth fabric of his vest to hide your shame. 

Wooden fence posts suddenly appeared in your peripheral vision, and you glanced up to find the outer fence line of your ranch perimeter in all its glory. 

The farmhouse at the end of the dusty, dirt lane was a modest building from the exterior, but you were relieved to see it nonetheless — wooden slats were bleached from the harsh light of the sun, and the characteristic weathervane of a loping horse still sat perched on the roof from when you were a child. 

“We’re here,” you said happily, unable to stop the smile of relief. “That’s my home.”

Bucky said nothing while Steve moved his mount closer. “It’s beautiful. You live out here by yourself?”

“I do,” you replied wearily, side-eyeing Steve. “Why?”

Steve looked at you quickly. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, I swear.”

“Shut your trap, you fuckin’ bastard,” Bucky snapped, glaring at Steve. You blinked and stared between them. “Leave ‘er alone. If she is happy on ‘er own, she’s happy. She’s already proven to be a strong woman who doesn’t need the likes a’you to judge ‘er.”

“Settle, settle,” Steve laughed, “I meant nothin’, I swear, Buck.”

Bucky shifted in the saddle, and you felt him press back against you. The simple act to get closer made an indescribable heat climb up the skin of your neck. “Good, now shut it.” 

You caught Steve’s gaze, and he winked while Bucky’s gaze was elsewhere. 

The swirling confusion in your mind overtook any sense to question what just happened between them — they truly were an odd duo, but you didn’t linger on that thought too long before Bucky pulled Rebel to a halt on the earthen path that led to your front door. 

The gate creaked and groaned in the slight breeze, and a few of the horses looked up from their lazy grazing to investigate the newcomers. 

“Well, here y’are,” Steve said, handing you the reins for your mare. The two men were looking around your property with interest as you took hold of the rope, and a thought crossed your mind — it was reckless, dangerous, and possibly the most foolish idea, but something nagged within your heart to voice it. 

“Why don’t– Uh, well–” The rope was tight around your knuckles while you fidgeted with it, and your mare nuzzled your elbow. “Why don’t you come on in? I can fix you up a hot meal and you both can, well—you can rest. I can at least thank you for your efforts.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve said, “You sure, darlin’? We can head on off; we’re only passin’ through.”

Bucky’s expression remained impassive, but there was something in his gaze that told you that you were doing the right thing — however much your good sense screamed that it was a mistake. “I’m sure—come on in and I’ll get the pot going.” 

You didn’t wait for them to answer before you set off to walk towards your home, all the while praying that you hadn’t just bitten the bullet. 

“Well, that’s real kind,” Steve called, then you heard soft hoofbeats thudding over the earth behind you.

The horses scattered throughout the fields watched you walk by with the strangers in tow, ears perked forward and eyes bright with interest. From the corner of your eyes, you could see Rebel start to gain on you, and then you felt his muzzle brush your shoulder. “Hi there, pretty boy,” you cooed, kissing the side of his nose. 

A deep chuckle sounded from his back, and you looked up towards Bucky, who was looking down at you with a soft smile — one that you found you’d do anything to see again. 

“You can hitch the boys just here,” you said as you pointed to a wooden rail set just next to the porch railing. The worn oak was sturdy, and you knew it would hold the two stallions should they grow restless. 

Steve dismounted with a loud groan, and he stretched to the sky when his boots landed on the dirt. 

Bucky, however, moved his left leg up and over Rebel’s neck, and he slid from the saddle with as little effort — a difficult dismount performed with ease, and the bastard knew it, too. An arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his lips for a moment before Steve rounded the back of his horse, when it vanished. 

The sudden change in his demeanour made your brows furrow with confusion, but Bucky shot you a look that forced your expression to be neutral — whatever made him conscious of his outward expression of happiness was his business, you reminded yourself. 

But you couldn’t deny the pull to see him smile again, not after your interest in the brooding man had grown tenfold over the journey home.

you're not gonna stop me, are you?

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[espithewarlock]

Wrote this today instead of working. Probably going to add more & edit before it goes to AO3.

Enjoy!

— — —

It was absurdly easy to slip out of the castle unnoticed. The guards didn't even look in his direction before he slipped out of the back gate.

Charles would be concerned if it wasn't massively to his benefit.

He enjoyed the fact that the Crown Prince's chambers overlooked the back garden. It was his favorite place in the whole castle and nobody questioned it when he said he wanted to go out there for some fresh air.

Luckily, nobody also questioned why his clothing looked a little bulky.

Once he got to the garden he stashed his fine silk outer layer and exited the castle grounds wearing more common, if nice, linen.

(He was very lucky that his chief of staff, Andrea, was used to his odd requests and procured the common clothing without question.)

(Honestly, people should start asking questions more often.)

The castle was stifling. The demands were endless and boring. Charles needed to escape, just for a little bit, for the sake of his sanity.

He'd probably be back before anybody even noticed he was missing.

So, for the first time in memory over the 22 years of his life, Charles was alone. No guards, staff, minders, teachers, companions, or anyone with him.

It was a liberating feeling. He could just go where he wanted, and he wanted to go to town.

As the Crown Prince, he was supposed to be preparing to rule for the benefit of his people. Unfortunately, he didn't know his people.

They all bowed and kept a respectful distance when Charles appeared with his father in their finery and crowns. They would downplay their needs or troubles and express their unending gratitude to the Crown.

Charles hated it. He wanted to know them, to hear their woes and do what he can with the resources of the Crown to help them. Improve their lives all across the kingdom.

So he had resolved to meet them. Little excursions where nobody would recognize him were perfectly safe. All he wanted to do was talk, browse the market, maybe have a drink in a tavern. Listen to the local gossip and see if there was anything he could do to subtly help.

As he slipped into the bustling town square, Charles felt alive. All around him were people, his people, going about their business without giving him a second glance.

Anyone who bumped or jostled him gave a quick "pardon me," instead of prostrating themselves in apology. It was wonderful.

Charles meandered through the streets with no goal in mind. He listened to the town criers and vendors hawking their wares, occasionally stopping to admire a simple piece of jewelry or purchase an apple to snack on as he walked.

He absolutely loved this. Being part of the people and exchanging pleasantries when they didn't know that he was a prince was lovely.

They treated him like an equal. Well, he was more than their equal. His job was going to be to work for them, after all. He just had to wear a grossly expensive crown when he did so.

Thinking about that crown reminded him that he probably needed to head back to the castle, but a delightful scent distracted him. He followed his nose just off the main thoroughfare to a bakery emitting the most delicious smells.

The sign out in front said Gasly's Baked Goods and Charles did not even hesitate before pushing the door open.

A small chime signaled his entrance and was instantly followed by a friendly shout, "One moment, please," from the man behind the counter.

Charles watched the man expertly lift the heavy looking large wooden spatula...thingy, shove it into the brick oven, and pull it out with freshly steaming loaves of bread on top.

The man quickly deposited the loaves on a cooling rack at his side and grabbed the bottom of his apron to wipe his hands while he turned around.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I get for you?" The man asked with a genial smile.

Now that he had a better look, Charles realized this man was much younger than he expected. He was probably only a year or two older than Charles, if he had to guess, and had the most stunningly blue eyes.

On top of that, his muscles made Charles feel weak in the knees. They were impressive and bulging out of the simple shirt and apron the man was wearing.

"Are you Gasly?" Charles blurted out, then covered his mouth in embarrassment as his face heated up.

The man's smile grew wider in amusement. "One of them, yes," he said, giving a little bow, "Pierre Gasly, at your service."

Charles was worried for a brief moment that the bow meant that the man…Pierre…knew who he was. When he raised his head, Charles saw no flash of recognition and that teasing grin would never be present on anyone that was actually bowing to him. That was definitely a relief.

“I’m Charles,” he started to introduce himself, and then panicked because he had not been intending on using his real name, and definitely couldn’t use his real last name, “uh…Norris. Charles Norris.”

It was the last name of one of his childhood friends, someone that he hadn’t seen in years and he hoped that it wasn’t recognizable.

There was a slight smirk on Pierre’s face when Charles gave his name. “Your parents followed the trend after the prince was born, Charles uh Norris?”

Charles felt his face heat up even more. That was an unfortunate side-effect of royalty. A good third of the males born in the year or so following Charles’ birth were also named Charles. 

“I blame my maman,” Charles tried to come up with a cover story on the spot, “she…um…works in the castle. We do, I mean. My whole family. My father is a…military advisor. I study history and strategy. My younger brother wants to be a captain someday.”

That wasn’t technically false, but it was definitely stretching the truth.

“Very interesting,” Pierre looked at him as if he could see right through him and Charles wanted to die. This guy was turning his brain into mush and he felt like sinking straight into the floor.

“So, Charles uh Norris,” Pierre continued, his amusement physically palpable, “did you come here to regale me with your family history or can I help you with something?”

This was mortifying. Charles was actually going to crawl out of his skin and the red of his face was going to become his new skin tone.

“Yes, of course,” he said, probably a bit too loudly, “I need…bread.”

Pierre looked like he was about two seconds away from bursting into incredulous laughter. “Well, you have come to the right place. We have” he paused, gesturing broadly around the shop, “bread. Though I am a bit surprised. I thought the castle kitchens make their own bread, no?”

“They were…out,” Charles gave the world’s lamest explanation and had half a mind to just walk back out the door and never show his face in town ever again.

“Out,” Pierre repeated, raising one eyebrow skeptically.

Charles groaned in frustration and Pierre actually started laughing at him. He ran one hand through his hair sheepishly and offered a placating grin. “I’m sorry,” he said after the laughter died down, “I just…it smelled so good and I…I don’t…”

“–do this very often?” Pierre finished his thought for him and Charles gave a small, embarrassed nod.

The smile he received in return was much more understanding, much less teasing, and Charles felt a sliver of relief wash over his body. Pierre probably thought he was an ignorant rich kid that grew up in the castle.

He wouldn’t be very far off, in that regard.

“Well, what you were probably smelling were the loaves that just came out of the oven,” Pierre explained, “but we offer a variety of products that might fit your tastes. Do you prefer something savory or sweet?”

“Sweet,” Charles responded instantly. He always had a bit of a sweet tooth, much to his mother’s dismay, and enjoyed indulging whenever he got the chance.

Pierre gestured and walked over to another stand behind his counter that held a large tray, maybe half filled with croissants.

“These were made by yours truly this very morning,” Pierre seemed particularly proud of himself as he showed them off, “we have plain for two coppers each or six for a silver. We also have chocolate-filled and raspberry-filled, three coppers each or four for a silver. Over here–”

“I’ll take two chocolate and two raspberry,” Charles interrupted, not needing to see anything else. The croissants looked decadent and his mouth was watering just thinking about them.

A smile lit up Pierre’s face as he carefully selected four croissants and placed them into a nearby cloth bag. “Do you need anything else today?” Pierre asked as he handed the bag over the counter.

Charles shook his head and gratefully accepted the bag. He placed a single silver piece into Pierre’s outstretched palm and watched the strong fingers curl around it.

“Well, I appreciate your business, Charles uh Norris,” the teasing grin was back and Charles felt a faint blush return to his cheeks, “and I sure hope the castle runs out of bread again soon.” Pierre followed his statement with a wink that only served to make Charles’ heart stutter.

“Thank you,” Charles mumbled, too embarrassed to say anything else. He knew his face was red again as he turned to make the quickest reasonable exit out of the store.

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard strong peals of laughter start up just before the door closed behind him.

Once he was back on the main thoroughfare, Charles pulled one of the croissants out of the bag and gave it a quick sniff. It smelled lovely, warm and inviting, just like the inside of the bakery, and he sank his teeth into the pastry.

Instant perfection hit his taste buds. The pastry itself was light and flaky, the chocolate rich and sweet, and Charles devoured it before he could restrain himself.

The raspberry one was just as excellent, the slight tartness creating a balance with the sweetness that was simply delightful. He did not care that he was ruining his dinner as he ate the other two on the short walk back to the castle.

It was stupidly simple to slip back into the garden unseen and he hid the bag where he had stashed his nicer clothes earlier. 

Charles realized that it was much later than expected and rushed back to his rooms to change. He was only five minutes late to his afternoon tutor and he hoped that he didn’t have any chocolate or raspberry smeared on his face.

He was definitely going back to Pierre’s Bakery.

[autistpride]

How many of these famous autists do you recognize? And this isn't even a complete list!

So many amazing wonderful people are autistic. I will never understand why people hate us so much.

Actors/actresses/entertainment:

Chloe Hayden

Talia Grant

Rachel Barcellona

Sir Anthony Hopkins

Dan Akroyd

David Byrne

Darryl Hannah

Courtney Love

Jerry Seinfeld

Roseanne Barr

Jennifer Cook

Chuggaaconroy

Stephanie Davis

Rick Glassman

Paula Hamilton

Dan Harmon

Paige Layle

Matthew Labyorteaux

Wentworth Miller

Desi Napoles

Freddie Odom Jr

Kim Peek

Sue Ann Pien

Henry Rodriguez

Scott Steindorff

Ian Terry

Tara Palmer -Tomkinson

Albert Rutecki

Billy West

Alexis Wineman- Miss America contestant

Athletes:

Jessica- Jane Applegate

Michael Brannigan

David Campion

Brenna Clark

Ulysse Delsaux

Tommy Dis Brisay

Jim Eisenreich

Todd Hodgetts

John Howard

Anthony Ianni

Lisa Llorens

Clay Matzo

Frankie Macdonald

Jason McElwain

Chris Morgan

Max Park

Cody Ware

Amani Williams

Samuel Von Einem

Musicians:

Susan Boyle

Elizabeth Ibby Grace

David Byrne

Johnny Dean

Tony DeBlois

Christopher Dufley

Jody Dipiazza

Pertti Kurikka

James Jagow

Ladyhawke

Kodi Lee

Left at London

Red Lewis Clark

Abz Love

Thristan Mendoza

Heidi Mortenson

Hikari Oe

Matt Savage

Graham Sierota

SpaceGhostPurp

Mark Tinley

Donald Triplett

Aleksander Vinter

Comedians:

Hannah Gatsby

Robert White

Bethany Black

Scientists/inventors/mathematians/Researchers:

Damian Milton

Bram Cohen

Michelle Dawson

Carl Sagan

Writers:

Neil Gaimen

Mel Bags

Kage Baker

Amy Swequenza

M. Remi Yergeau

Sean Barron

Lydia X Z Brown

Matt Burning

Dani Bowman

Nicole Cliffe

Laura Kate Dale

Aoife Dooley

Corrine Duyvus

Marianne Eloise

Jory Flemming

Temple Grandin

John R Hall

Naomi Higashida

Helan Hoang

Liane Holliday Willey

Luke Jackson

Rosie King

Thomas A McKean

Johnathan Mitchell

Jack Monroe

Caiseal Mor

Morenike Giwa- Onaiwu

Jasmine O'Neill

Brant Page Hanson

Dawn Prince-Hughs

Sue Robin

Stephen Shore

Andreas Souvitos

Sarah Stup

Susanna Tamaro

Chuck Tingle

Donna Williams

Leaders:

Julia Bascom

Ari Ne'eman

Sarah Marie Acevedo

Sharon Davenport

Joshua Collins

Conner Cummings

Kevin Healy

Poom Jenson

Amy Knight

Jared O'Mara

David Nelson

Shaun Neumeier

Master Sgt. Shale Norwitz

Jim Sinclair

Judy Singer

Dr. Vernon Smith

Artists:

Miina Akkijjyrkka

Danny Beath

Deborah Berger

Larry John Bissonnette

Patrick Francis

Goby

Jorge Gutierrez

Lina Long

Johnathan Lerman

Julian Martin

Haley Moss

Morgan Harper Nichols

Tim Sharp

Gilles Tehin

Willem Van Genk

Richard Wawro

Poets:

David Eastham

Christopher Knowles

David Miedzianik

Henriette Seth F

[doyou000me]

For the wip game - You Can Touch, But He's Mine and The Shop At The End pls!!!

@cryingatships thank you for playing the WIP game with me~!

To see all of my WIPs (and maybe make my day and ask about one of them???) check out the full list here~!

You Can Touch, But He's Mine (Deep Night Smutfic)

First, a confession: I got so excited about talking about The Shop At The End, I almost forgot you also asked about this fic 🙈

You Can Touch, But He's Mine is a KhemWela oneshot smutfic born out of my frustration with Khem in episode 3 when he got all jealous and started being a bloody asshole to everybody.

The premise in simple: Khem loves watching Wela work as a host. He loves watching the customers gaze longingly at Wela and his current company, claw for a few hours of Wela's time and spend fortunes for his attention. Khem loves showing those same customers to the taxi stop in the early hours of the morning, loves seeing them off and loves being the one who gets to take Wela home to strip him of his carefully coordinated outfits and host persona.

Also, I should probably mention that Wela's outfit for the night has had me look at these for inspiration:

The Shop At The End

Thank you for asking about The Shop! I didn't realise how much I've missed this story until I started writing about it and couldn't stop myself!

@welcometothelairofthebitchking also asked about The Shop At The End, so you can find a snippet from the beginning of the story over in their answer!

As mentioned in the WIP list, The Shop At The End was originally a fanfic idea. I have plotted, written and rewritten it quite a few times but before I could finish it, I made the desicion to stop writing for that fandom. BUT (as with When I Grow Up) I was too in love with the story to give up on it, which is why I am now considering how I can rewrite it into an original story.

It is (surprise surprise) centered around a magic shop run by Lili, a succubus (we Do Not Ask about her Age) and her young assistant - the main character - who may or may not be an incubus and/or magician and may or may not also be aroace (so many delicious desicions to reconsider now that I'm no longer guided by an existing canon).

Around them circle a cast of social outcasts, including a vampire, a pack of werewolves and a dwarf exiled from the mines. There's also my favourite character, Andrea/Cameron (I keep changing my mind), a nonbinary shape shifter who changes their apperance to fit the extravagant fashion choice of the day. They resigned from the police in a rather spectacular fashion to write erotica and open a book store selling porn as a front for behind the counter (in the attic) forbidden, dark magic texts. They are one of the reasons I can't turn my back on this story.

The plot needs quite a bit of reworking now that it's not going to be a fanfic anymore, but my thoughts keep returning to it for the vibes alone! It's quite comfy to mentally sit in the shop for a while...

Think warm sunlight shining in through the curved storefront and a fat cat sleeping in the display window. Think herbs and amulets and knick-knacks hanging from the ceiling. Think rich, almost ghibli-like interiors with polished wood and brass detailing and light glinting off glass phials. Think hundreds of little drawers all marked with handwritten labels such as human teeth, adult and bone dust, mixed or calws, werewolf and skulls, mice.

Think polite smiles and ironed shirts and buttoned vests. Think black market wares hidden in the back and ingredients measured on brass scales and payments made in gold.

Think shady dealings and questionable favours and bribed cops. Think surprise raids and rumours spreading over pints of beer, rumors about something going on that is keeping the coppers busy, about strangers approaching those around you with promises of change, about the calm before a storm.

And when society comes looking for the main character to be their hero, think: "Why should I sacrifice myself to help all of you, when all you have ever done is shun me?"

[princehatterene]

Then hmm... a question about your octopath ocs! Do you have ideas on what their chapters would be about? :0

yeah i have the broad strokes of their stories! i still have a lot to work on but here’s what i have so far! under the cut cuz i talk a lot

ori’s story (heh that rhymed) is about her getting run out of her town after the nobles figured out she was overcharging them for wares. they also knew she was using that extra money to give back to the commonfolk, and they were not happy about it. so she’s now basically a fugitive, but that won’t stop her from fucking with the rich in other places! her story climaxes with stopping an assassination plot against the pinelands’ royal family (that she has to stop herself from joining; murder isn’t the answer to corruption—change is).

camil’s is pretty simple—she’s been cursed and she’s trying to find a way to break it. and she figures if she can’t, she might as well see the world while she still has time. she learns the curse wasn’t just an accident she stumbled upon…someone placed it for her to find deliberately. who was it? that’s for me to know and you to hopefully find out someday~

tybalt is going through an identity crisis while investigating strange weather patterns on the cloudlands archipelago. he feels sad to leave behind the knight life he once trained for, but he’s beginning to come into his own in medicine; both jobs fulfill his desire to help people. the arcas adventurer’s guild supports his job shift into apothecary, but he’s still dealing with friends who wanna drag him back into knighthood. all the while, the cloudlands are deteriorating at an alarming rate, under an oppressive fog.

oliver is a dancer who recently made the tough decision to leave his thespian group and try to make it on his own. onstage, he can light up a room with his many artistic talents, but offstage he’s insecure and struggles with trust and abandonment issues. in his youth, he had a group of friends he loved with all his heart, who abandoned him for no apparent reason. he comes to learn they’re still out there somewhere, but he never would have expected where they’d end up…

penelope is part of a tribe of elves who live in the north (or rather they were pushed to the north by the humans). she’s sick of being sequestered and longs to rejoin humanity and regain their settlements all across the continent. so she’s off to convince the three biggest kingdoms of the continent to let her tribe live amongst the humans. however, she learns that the humans had a very specific reason to distance themselves from the elves, and she vows to be the one to break that cycle.

andreas is a member of a group of nomads who have lived in lands all over the continent (so like, the opposite of penelope now that i think about it). these nomads follow a great eagle-like wind spirit called the storm’s eye. wherever the storm’s eye flies, that’s where the nomads travel to next. but one day, the spirit vanished into thin air, and it’s up to our hunter to track it down! unfortunately, once the spirit is finally found, it’s in a very sad state. now his priority shifts from finding the spirit to cleansing it of its dark influence.

twyla is a cleric in the church of the sacred flame. she’s also kinda like an inquisitor à la temenos in octopath 2? though she’s more of a lawyer than a detective. her best friend and current head of the flame knights has been accused of heresy and is set to be executed. twyla believes he can’t possibly be guilty of such a horrible crime, and vows to clear his name. sadly, the case is far from being that simple, and she has to come to terms with a lot about the world and the church itself.

and last but not least, hawkin is our thief and heir apparent to a notorious desert crime family. he’s been tasked with stealing an ancient artifact locked within a temple lost to time. that already seems impossible, but it’s also been stated plainly that if he fails, he won’t just be excommunicated from the family…he’ll be killed by his father’s own hand. turns out, that artifact is Not something you wanna mess with, not that daddy dearest cares about the world getting destroyed.

all the travelers also face dark versions of themselves near the end of their stories, all trying to pull them toward the still-nameless dark god. they’ve all been touched by darkness in some way…

orietta by her upbringing shaping her own gray morals…

camil by the curse and her missing mother…

tybalt by exposure to the cloudlands’ evil fog…

oliver by the true reason for his friends’ disappearances…

penelope by the revelation of her tribe’s true purpose…

andreas by the corruption of his people’s guardian spirit…

twyla by her friend’s betrayal and shaken faith in the gods…

and hawkin by the nature of his profession and his family’s lust for power…

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Currently sitting in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day.

Welcome to the working week although, for those of you working in the NHS, welcome to just another day.

The Mighty Josiah arrived on Friday and we made a quick video. On Saturday morning, I woke up at 5.45, he was awake, so we went downstairs and waited for the dawn. While he ate waffles and Nutella, and played some madness on his tablet, I snatched a few extra hours of sleep.

Saturday afternoon was big fun! Thank you to everyone that listened to the radio show. If you appreciate good musicianship, you will enjoy Slave and Gil Scott-Heron. Hellen Andrea Stavrou did a superb job! If you missed it, it’s available on MixCloud (yay!) Next week, The Letter S (Pt. 2). Executive producer: Eliza Meilan.

While the family went out to see the new Marvel film at the cinema, I was fairly certain I could find something good on Netflix and I found the fabulous Nicholas Cage/Pedro Pascal/Tiffany Haddish movie, ‘The Unbearable Weight Of Massive Talent’. Cage plays HIMSELF in a ‘comedy action thriller’! I kid you not. Well worth your time.

While making scrambled eggs for brunch yesterday, I added some coarse black pepper, and I heard it mumble the C word under its breath! “Charming!” I thought.

No wonder Sean Combs settled one day after Cassie sued him; he didn’t want his private life getting scrutinized. Too late! My timeline is now full of VERY unsavoury stories about Mr. Combs. If you want to do some digging yourself, check out the mysterious death of music industry executive Shakir Stewart!

The Trouble is organising a Christmas Fayre at the bottom of our road, in order to sell her jewellery, and so that other local craftsmen and women can sell their wares. She’s now looking for vendors to make the fayre as varied and interesting as possible. I have suggested that I do a kissing booth. Price per pitch is £35. I figure, if I charge £5.00 per kiss, I only need seven customers and I can cover my costs!

Have a marvellous and momentous Monday. I love you all.

[siri-ike]

Bellyache pt.2

Prev

He'll be fine. He once threw up an entire, live centipede. There's nothing that can keep Mikey down for long. Raph really picked the best twin. Ok, so they aren't really twins, but technically, Leo and Donnie aren't either. They just decided these things based on appearance. Does that make it any less true? Point is he'll be fine. Crabs. What was Mr Bishop saying, something about frogs. Oh no, he's looking at Raph.

"Perhaps you can answer the question." For a moment, he just looked like a baby turtle in headlights. "How do reptiles react to the cold?" Thank goodness he was in Bishops' class and not Lucas's.

"t-tired?" He stutters out hopefully.

"That's correct. Reptiles are cold-blooded and therefore need external heat to stay warm. If it gets too cold, their heart rate slowes down, and they hibernate. This can leave them vulnerable to predators."

Surviving biology was no easy feat now that they're on the chapter focusing on reptiles and amphibians. It seems Bishop only ever calls on them rather than the other students. 'He probably just wants to make sure we're on track with everyone else since we haven't been in school as long as them.' Leo had said. It's like he just can't help but lick the boots of any and all authority figures. Heh. Ya'know, gross metaphors aren't the same without Mikey taking them too far. It's not like he misses him or anything. Raph can handle school. He's been handling school. For, like, almost two months. He's got this. It's just a few hours. Alone.

Donnie missed lunch again. It's weirdly peaceful with just Leo and April. It's a little nice being able to just eat silently while they do their TCRI conspiracies. Lunch was some sort of fish. It doesn't matter. Raph'll eat anything that's put in front of him without much thought. Because any food is energy and energy is violence. Raph loves violence. He really does, honest. Sure, it's been a bit duller since being accepted by the humans, starting school, and legally mandated therapy. And yeah, some nonviolent sports have turned out to be fun, too. But he still dreams of violence,  just maybe not every night. But, right now. This isn't a problem he can punch. Nobody hurt his little brother. And Leo's right. It probably was something he ate. He did once try to eat a frog whole, so it was bound to happen.

After they finished their lunch, Leo insisted on bringing some to Donnie in the science room. He'd been examining blood samples from last night. 'Given voluntarily,' he claims. He's also been acting weird. But more the usual kind of weird. The kind of weird Donnie gets every now and then a couple times a year. Maybe it's the full moon. Maybe he's a werewolf. No, wait there's no wolves in New York. Ware-possum? Ware-racoon? Maybe Mikey's a ware - something and Donnie's trying to cure him. That's deffinetly what's going on. Raph should warn Leo and April so that- no, what if they're in on it? What if they're all just waiting to get him alone so they can turn him too?

"LEO!" Raph says calmly as they turn the smelly corner (Andrea dared them to lick the gross wall last week)

"yes?" That's exactly what a were-something would say.

"I have to, be um, at the mmnm. Reading starts moon- soon. I mean I, said I'd yelp- Help! At, eh, library, with, uh, bye." Nailed it.

After expertly evading his pursuers, Raph proceeds toward the gym, number one source of information. There's still about 20 minutes left for lunch, which means Mona-Lisa's still practicing on the hockey field.

Next

[vm4vm0]

Lipstick Lover from Evaline Wu Huang on Vimeo.

Directed by Janelle Monae & Alan Ferguson Produced by: Alex P. Willson and Nandi George

Production Designer: Evaline Wu Huang DP: Allison Triplett

Production Supervisor: Manar Humidan Production Coordinator: Valerija Valentina Mizula Asst Coordinator: Christian McLain 1st AD: Kirsten Knisely 2nd AD: Mollie Lemm

1st AC: Sarah Ratay 2ns AC: Ariel Pomerantz Loader: Meriel O’Connell Loader: Paolo Arriola Vintage Camera Operator: Coan "Buddy" Nichols Vintage B Camera Operator: Mat Matthews Gaffer: Marlon Obrien Best Boy Electric: Alice Becerra Key Grip: Sergio Silva Best Boy Grip: Henry Martinez Additional Cinematography: Coan "Buddy" Nichols, Alan Ferguson, Tree Young-Stevens

Art Director: Andrew Caso Set Decorator: Chad Tatham Set Decorator: Natou Fall Prop Master: Leone Reeves Leadman: Vincent Quintana Set Dresser: Joanna Cabalquinto Art Assistant: Aaron Meritt

Wardrobe Stylist: Sakinah Bashir, Marquise Miller Make-up Artist: Myrna Powell, Starlynn Hair Stylist: Andrea Garcia, Nena Ross Davis HMU Swing: Patrice Harris, Tru'von Reed Body Painter: Julie Hassett Assist Body Painter: Meg Wilbur

Medic: Joe Sartee Fire Safety Officer: Gabriel Martinez Craft Service: Irene Chen Party Producer: Bridgid Jones

Janelle Monáe Stylist: Ali Mandelkorn Janelle Monáe Make-Up Artist: Keita Moore Janelle Monáe Hair Stylist: Larranisha Russell Editor: Jorge Sandoval Assistant Editor: Sky Kim Editorial Producer: Ellie Ware Editorial Managing Partner: Michelle Eskin Editorial Executive Producer: Amber Farls Editorial Head of Production: Brady Fiero Colorist: Asa Fox Head VFX: Andres Jaramillo

Choreographer: Jemel Williams Dancers: Fulani Buhati, Kacie Garland, Helen Gedlu, Tydryn Scott, Bianca Muscatelli, Asha B Franklin Male Talent: Raphael Thomas, Rameer Colon, David Dwane Washington, Onochie Akah Exotic Talent: Jasmin Jassy Davis, Quanice Jackson, Kailan "Rocco" Snowden, Regine Smith, Cynthia Zavala, Jess Barlow, Tia Williams, Francis Hernandez, Christine Enriquez Lipstick Lover: Ashleigh Baugh Model: Tyanna Stitts

Wondaland Friends: Kelli, Stephanie, Bueno, Nyesha, Nate, Chuck, Nana, Jemel Client: Wondaland Label: Atlantic Records Production Company: Wandering Cameras VFX: Straynge VFX Editorial: Cut+Run LA

[ndpreservation]

Visit to Hook Pottery Paper and Turkeyfoot Farm

On October 13, our department visited Hook Pottery Paper and Turkeyfoot Farm in Laporte, Indiana. The paper and pottery and studios are run by Andrea Peterson and her husband Jon Hook, and their son Ry Hook oversees Turkeyfoot Farm. Andrea Peterson is a renown papermaker who specializes in producing handmade papers from locally sourced fibers and dyes. Recently, Andrea published In the Field, which is a handbook for harvesting, processing, and making papers from natural fibers, such as daylily, hay, wheatstraw, and denim from local farmers. In addition to these papers, Andrea makes a highly textured style of binder’s board reminiscent of lumpy, irregular pasteboards commonly used by binders prior to the 19th century. Likewise, Andrea has a line of durable (and colorful) heavier weight papers that we are interested in for limp paper-case bindings. It was fascinating to see how Andrea’s innovative use of natural fibers is contributing to the field of papermaking (pun intended).  

In addition to touring Andrea’s papermaking studio, her son Ry Hook showed us around Turkeyfoot Farm, where he cultivates a variety of greens, livestock, and eggs for a Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) program and local restaurants. Ry discussed how he has been able to use regenerative farming techniques to improve the productivity of the farm while keeping its footprint small, both physically and environmentally. 

Jon Hook’s beautiful pottery is wood-fired using glazes formed from plants on Turkeyfoot Farm, such as thistle. The wood used to fire the pottery kiln comes from fallen trees on the farm and off-cuts from their on-site wood mill. Jon supplements the wood during firing with an ingenious oil-drip system that recycles used fry oil from local restaurants.  Visit the farm yourself next weekend! Hook Pottery Paper and Turkeyfoot Farm are having their annual Fall Open House November 11 - 13, 2022, with demonstrations of papermaking, fiber processing, farm tours, and ash glaze-making. Jon’s pottery, Andrea’s paper, and delectable produce from Ry’s farm will all be for sale in addition to soaps, jams, and art!

Andrea's papermaking studio, showing her hydraulic press, wove paper molds, and felts.

A selection of Andrea's papers made from natural fibers.

Jon Hook (left) and Andrea Peterson (right) discuss a pulp-painting, which is made from pigmented paper fibers added to the sheet during its formation.

Some of Jon's beautifully glazed wares.

Jon's studio with unfired vessels on the shelf.

Ry Hook inside one of his greenhouses.

One of Ry's curious, happy goats!

[hexjulia]

anyway of course i read some more about nazi production of porcelain after the book and that's how i found out there was apparently a craze for porcelain made in concentration camps among wealthy russians in 2018. why. it can't be just that it was of 'good quality' as the article mentions. so many places produced good porcelain throughout history.

'Russians are buying Nazi-era porcelain made by a company that was owned by the SS and used concentration camp prisoners for forced labour.

Antique dealers say that wealthy Russians account for more than half of the buyers of Allach porcelain. The company’s wares were marked with SS runes and were mostly made as gifts for Nazi leaders.

“My biggest sale was recently for €50,000, an SS rider,” Andreas Thiel, who runs an online shop specialising in Allach, said. “The quality of the objects is on a par with Meissen porcelain, better even. The main buyers are Russians, I’d say they account for about 60 per cent.”

[yhancik]

What kind of cinema is appropriate for the age of Palm Pilot and Google? Automatic surveillance and self-guided missiles? Consumer profiling and CNN? To investigate this question, Lev Manovich, one of today's most influential thinkers in the fields of media arts and digital culture, paired with award-winning new media artist and designer Andreas Kratky. They have also invited contributions from leaders in other cultural fields: DJ Spooky, Scanner, George Lewis, and Johann Johannsson (music), servo (architecture), Schoenerwissen/OfCD (information visualization), and Ross Cooper Studios (media design). The results of their three-year explorations are the three "films" presented on this DVD. Although the films resemble the familiar genres of cinema, the process by which they were created demonstrates the possibilities of soft(ware) cinema. A "cinema," that is, in which human subjectivity and the variable choices made by custom software combine to create films that can run infinitely without ever exactly repeating the same image sequences, screen layouts and narratives. Mission to Earth, a science fiction allegory of the immigrant experience, adopts the variable choices and multi-frame layout of the Soft Cinema system to represent "variable identity." Absences is a lyrical black and white narrative that relies on algorithms normally deployed in military and civilian surveillance applications to determine the editing of video and audio. Texas, a "database narrative," assembles its visuals, sounds, narratives, and even the identities of its characters, from multiple databases. The DVD was designed so that every viewing of each film generates a different version.

[tfgadgets]

A Fashion Editors Quest to Craft a Wardrobe by America’s Finest Artisans

“It started with me stalking a nun with a cashmere goat farm,” said Melissa Ventosa Martin, the founder of Old Stone Trade, an online marketplace for wares made by international artisans. Since 2021 Ms. Ventosa Martin, 45, has peddled made-to-order items like a green tweed kilt from Andrea Chappell’s Acme Atelier in Scotland or hand-stitched loafers from Aldanondo y Fdez in Spain — the kinds of…

[rjdavies]

Celebrating Black History Month: My 2023 Recap

It's important to celebrate and acknowledge the people around us. I am an ally.

Feb 1: Ruby Bridges

Feb 2: Jimi Hendrix

Feb 3: Willie O’Ree (Canadian)

Feb 4: Alton C Parker (Canadian)

Feb 5: Rose Fortune (Canadian)

Feb 6: Honorable Lincoln M. Alexander (Canadian)

Feb 7: Oscar Peterson (Canadian)

Feb 8: John Ware (Canadian)

Feb 9: Michael Lee-Chin (Canadian)

Feb 10: Dr. Clement Courtenay Ligoure (Canadian)

Feb 11: Harriet Tubman (Canadian)

Feb 12: George Elliot Clarke (Canadian)

Feb 13: Bessie Coleman

Feb 14: Jean Augustine (Canadian)

Feb 15: Eleanor Collins (Canadian)

Feb 16:  Miali Elise Coley-Sudlovenick (Canadian)

Feb 17: Violet King (Canadian)

Feb 18: Kamala Harris 

Feb 19: Dr. Eugenia Duodu Addy (Canadian)

Feb 20: Dr. Alexandra Bastiany (Canadian)

Feb 21: Andrea Bain (Canadian)

Feb 22: Dr. Nicole Kaniki 

Feb 23: Nichelle Nichols

Feb 24: Mary Jackson

Feb 25: Katherine Johnson

Feb 26: Dorothy Vaughan

Feb 27: Mae Carol Jemison

Feb 28: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Noteworthy figures - Canada.ca

R. J. Davies

A Riveting Jacked-In Dreamy Mind-Bender

RJ Davies - Science Fiction Author, Maddox Files, Novels