#Rawbone-d

[tailoroffates]

Writing tips # 6 - The Body

Hey, hi everyone! I'm back again with yet another segment of Writing tips. Today I'm going to chat about something many struggle to describe. The body. Below will be several categories containing words synonymous with descriptors used when explaining someone's body. Hopefully, now y'all won't end up struggling for an hour like I have trying to figure out a socially correct way to explain that this particular character is obese :D

Thin

Angular, bony, emaciated, dainty, ethereal, frail, gangly, lanky, lean, malnourished, narrow, petite, puny, rawboned, scrawny, skeletal, skin-and-bone, skinny, slender, slight, slim, stick, twiggy, underweight.

Heavy

Beefy, big-boned, bloated, brawny, broad, bulging, bulky, burly, chubby, chunky, dense, elephantine, full-bodied, gargantuan, heavy-set, husky, lumpy, massive, obese, oversized, paunchy, plump, plumpish, portly, potbellied, pudgy, robust, rotund, round, shapeless, solid, stocky, stout, thick, wide.

Short

Compact, dwarfed, dwarfish, little, low, miniature, pint-sized, runty, squat, stunted, stubby, stumpy, tiny, undersized, wee.

Tall

Alpine, beanstalk, gangly, giant, lanky, lofty, skyscraping, stick, stretched, towering.

Weak

Decrepit, delicate, effeminate, emaciated, feeble, flaccid, fragile, frail, puny, sickly.

Strong

Beefy, brawny, burly, firm, herculean, huge, hulky, husky, muscular, powerful, ripped, robust, rugged, shredded, solid, stalwart, stout, strapping, tough, well-built.

Fit

Athletic, hardy, healthy, hearty, shapely, robust, toned, trim.

As always I hope this helps. Have a wonderful day and let your days be blessed as the best! <3

[cuoredimuschio]

line of apsides (how long from here to perihelion)

steddie | rated: t | AU, childhood friends, reunions, seconds chances | 30.4k (WIP) | ch 11

“It’s really changed, huh? Barely fucking recognized the place when I was driving in.” The firelight matures—from ruddy to rusty—on the curve of Eddie’s smile as he laughs, a sangria sunset cast on each crooked tooth. No more gap. He plucks a pebble from the sand, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. “Thought I accidentally took a left turn through some kind of black hole and ended up in a different dimension.” He’s exaggerating, but he’s not. As the miles ticked up, one by one, on his rental car, Steve had tightened his grip around the rawboned steering wheel, waiting for the memories to come rushing at his head, loosed by some small anchor from his childhood that he’d completely forgotten: a now-weathered sign, an offbeat building, a peculiar tree. Anything, he feared, could break the chains and blow the floodgates wide open when he least expected it. But nothing ever did. Nothing was left. Not a trace. Eddie was here, though, more than Steve ever was. He was here as the changes began to take hold, as the spindly fingers of development carded through the streets, clawing up the brick and smoothing down crisp black asphalt, snatching up the mom-and-pop shops and leaving brand names in their place. He would’ve seen the hotels and the resorts, from the day they broke ground to the day they opened their revolving doors. He would’ve watched the endless D-Day, new faces invading the beach and planting their logoed flags in the sand, staking their claim but never staying long enough to make a difference, to leave a real mark, to forge a connection. It easily could’ve slipped past Steve, narrow as his attention always was, but there’s no such thing as unconscious acclimation when it’s your life and everything you’ve ever known being whittled away, piece by piece. But maybe that’s not what he means. A lot more things can change in nine years. Everything can change in nine years. Hell, everything can change in the span of a second. Steve knows that as well as anyone.

read the rest of the chapter on ao3!

[copperbadge]

1968bullittmustang

@copperbadge any of these delightful names a relative of yours? Or possibly a good list of unique names for your book.

I'm certainly here for Lancelot Wells. :D And Reuben Rawbone. Love Rawbone as a surname. One of my favorite things too is the way men used to shorten their names -- Thos. for Thomas is fun, and W'm for William is one of my all-time favorites.

Realistically there won't be that many actual Quakers in the Quaker Whaler novel, because it's the adventures of One Quaker amongst Many Jewish Pirates. But you can see towards the end on the third column there's a Theophilia! I always wanted to name a character Theophile just to see what would happen when "Phil" revealed his true name, so naming Eddie "Theophile" did satisfy something deep within me.

I think the Starbucks, at least of my line, were pretty ordinary about names, not a Dykes or a Loveday among them. Hezekiah's about as far out as they get. Although we did have a Cornelius and my brother liked the name so much he wanted us to call him that for a couple of weeks after finding out about it.

losing my mind over this list of 17th/18th century quaker names

[sinisterexaggerator]

Shriv likes biting, how does Bane feel about getting a lil bite in the bedroom?

Three things come to mind.

He’s confused by it, especially if you are a human. He’s never known humans to be biters, except maybe the runts, and it may catch him off guard.

Two, you’re trying to claim dominance over him, and he shuts that shit down real quick. No one’s going to mark Cad Bane and get away with it.

Three, he’s loathe to admit it kind of turns him on. No one has ever had the guts to do that before, and now he’s intrigued, though you may not get very far. In the 10% chance he entertains it, you best follow up with showing him a good time to match or things might go south, and not in the good kind of way (male gendered lovers come to mind in this instance, I.E. Jango Fett, or another Duros like Shriv - I plan to write both these ships one day, heh heh).

Here's my attempt to try to combine them, partially, in one ficlet. :D  Enjoy.

Warnings: Smut, biting, penis in vagina sex, blood.

Word count: 495

You had the unique and rare privilege of riding a rather rough and tumble cowboy. It was a reward for being such a good girl in his leave of absence from you. You hadn’t once relieved yourself; you had waited patiently, and today was the day he would satiate your lust.

He rode in on a landpseeder; he had scooped you up as you wound your legs around him. You reminded him of the bargain you had made, and he was forced to follow through. By now you were mid-coitus, the Duros sitting flush beneath you. He refused to lie down flat, that was where he drew the line.

It was silly, though Cad Bane had his reasons for it. One, it left him vulnerable. You supposed you understood it, for if he were in a prone position it would be more difficult to reach for his LL-30’s. Still, you wanted to have some fun with him. He had cupped your chin as he stared into your eyes with his of hellfire. He loved to watch the tiny muscle movements of your face as you moaned and whimpered for him.

You leaned forward in his lap; you could feel his cock pressing into the anterior wall of your wet sex. You sunk your flat incisors and your pathetic excuse for canines into the blue flesh of his neck. The Duros made a choking sound and pushed you back, one hand flat against your sternum; your naked chest. His blazing eyes had narrowed beneath his hat, though his mouth hung open.

His thoughts were a jumble inside his head. Why the karkin' hells had you done that of all things? Since when did humans bite, or at least the ones that didn’t rise above his ankles? His expression was twisted into a look of true bewilderment, but it quickly contorted into something else.

You yelped as he placed his rawboned fingers around your throat. He stood right up with you and flipped you over. He shoved you off his cock, looming above you sprawled out across the mattress. He bared his fangs, then bent down to bury his own teeth right into the thickness of your thigh.

Your breath caught before you could cry out his name. He released you to lick a trail between your folds and up towards your lower abdomen. He dug his cuspids in again, harder, leaving a puncture and a bite mark.

You pressed against his shoulders; he assuaged your coming tears by unlocking his tight jaws. He exposed his blood-soaked teeth, crept up slowly. He drove his tongue inside your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself.

You kissed back passionately, Bane groping your warm and supple breasts within the palms of his large hands. He pulled away for a stolid reprimand, dry and casual, despite the events that had just transpired.

“De only one who’s gonna be doin' de bitin’ around ‘ere’s me, got it, princess?” he hissed.

“Yessir,” you complied quietly, happy to be alive.

[vintagerpg]

Lowcountry Crawl (2019) is such a great and strange little zine, written by John Gregory, with layout and design by Technical Grimoire’s David Schirduan and art contributions by Charles Ferguson Avery. 20% of the proceeds go to the Penn Center, an organization dedicated to South Carolina’s African American cultural heritage. The zine seeks to fictionalize South Carolina’s coastal Lowcountry and Sea Islands, using the 19th folklore of the region for exploration in D&D and OSR campaigns.

19th century folklore may seem like a weird thing to synthesize into a D&D game, but it works rather well. This issue presents a series of barrier islands, full of pirates, giant crabs, fish men, a wizard’s tower situated in a lighthouse and a mysterious fellow known as the Low Tide Merchant, who always has what you want though not necessarily at a price you’re willing to pay. There are charts for rolling up new, random islands and a couple new monsters, including the delightful Tommy Rawbones, who reminds me of that skeleton from Castlevania who is always chasing his head. Except much more horrible.

Everything described holds on to a certain 19th century-ness. There’s magic chewing tobacco, colonels and forts. But I also find it surprisingly easy to picture a group of standard fantasy adventurers roaming these dunes. I find that sort of aesthetic elasticity appealing in the same way I do the mix of sci-fi and fantasy in Barrier Peaks, say. Cool stuff. Looking forward to future issues.

[kevrocksicehouse]

The rawboned saintliness of Laura Dern, who turns 54 today:

Sandy Williams in Blue Velvet. D: David Lynch (1986). For Sandy, the detectives daughter who represents a pure and innocent lifeboat that Kyle MaLachlan’s Jeffery keeps in sight as he moves into darkness, Lynch cast a tall and lanky blonde who was pure enough to give the Robins speech (“For the longest time there was this darkness. And all of a sudden, thousands of robins were set free and they flew down and brought this blinding light of love. And it seemed that love would make a difference and it did”). Later, when she finds what Jeffrey was up to, her face contorts into a mask of tragedy and she asks “Where’s my dream?” We’ve never been the same since.

Rose in Rambling Rose. D: Martha Coolidge (1991). Dern stars in a Depression-era love story between a former teenage prostitute and the good-hearted and eccentric Southern family (Robert DuVall, Diane Ladd and Lukas Haas) that takes her in. She impulsively kisses DuVall, and let’s 13-year old Haas masturbate her, but Ladd, a portrait of secular sainthood, realizes that despite her “borderline nymphomania” she is just looking for love and acceptance. Dern realizes that as well and gives a lovely vulnerable performance whose promiscuity is wrapped up in her sweet nature. 

Marmee March in Little Women. D: Greta Gerwig (2019). Marmee is a tower of strength in Louisa May Alcott’s novel of a Massachusetts family during the Civil War. And Dern plays that beautifully but she also gets into a level of complexity that’s easy to overlook, as when she tells Jo she has been angry every day of her life, and, in a time of tragedy, when we see her mask of strength sag, then weaken and finally collapse and then recompose itself, the restoration more poignant than the breakdown.

[misslisterkeepsajournal]

1822 Saturday 13 July

9 3/4

1 3/4

Two kisses last night one almost immediately after the other before we went to sleep and one just before getting up this morning I felt better but was so shockingly low last night I cried bitterly but smothered it so that Pi [Mariana] scarcely knew of it at any rate she took no notice wisely enough - I told Pi before we got up of my proper regard for and correspondence with Miss Maclean and Pi told me of the gentlemanliness and agreeableness of Mr Powis who it seems might interest Pi more than duly had her heart no object but Delta [Charles] with whom she has had no connection these four months -

Not down to breakfast till 11 - Settling 1 thing or other - M- went with me to the stables to see Percy and the gig, and we then (leaving my aunt) went to inquire about servants - walked a little on the walls and up and down the rows, and did not come in till 1 40/60 - then, perhaps luckily for us, all in a bustle, and M- off at 2 1/4 - we were off in 1/2 hour, and got here (the King’s head, New hotel, Llangollen, patronised by Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby) in 4 1/2 hours after 7 - including the 1/2 hour we stopt at the church gate at Wrexham to see that beautiful church which is kept with the greatest possible neatness - Beautiful drive from Chester to Wrexham - it was market day, and the town seemed very busy - Beautiful drive also from Wrexham here but I was perhaps disappointed with the first couple of miles of the vale of Llangollen - the hills naked of wood, and the white limestone quarries on our left certainly not picturesque. About 3 miles from Llangollen, # when caslte Dinas bran came in sight, we were satisfied of the beauties of the valley - but the sun was setting on the castle, and so dazzled our eyes we could scarce look that way - the Inn (kept by Elizabeth Davies) is close to the bridge and washed by the river (Dee) we are much taken with our hostess and with the place - have had an excellent roast leg of mutton and trout and very fine port wine with every possible attention and should like to spend a few days here -

It is from here the Saltmarshes had their mutton sent - 5 d. per lb. and the carriage might be about 1/2 per lb. making it in all 6 1/2 d. a lb. the waiter said we had come on the wrong side of the water - we should have crossed by a bridge on our left over the canal (the Ellesmere) and turned along the aqueduct -

We sat down to dinner at 8 1/2, having previously strolled thro’ the town to Lady Eleanor Butler’s and Miss Ponsonby’s place - there is a public road close to the house, thro’ the grounds and along this we passed and repassed standing to look at the house, cottage, which is really very pretty - a great many of the people touched their hats to me on passing and we are much struck with their universal civility - a little seeing us apparently standing - to consider our way, shewed us the road to Pl��s Newyd (Lady Eleanor Butler’s and Miss Ponsonby’s) followed and answered our several questions very civily - a little boy then came and we gave each of them all our halfpence 2 d. each -

After dinner (the people of the house took it at 10) wrote the following note to “the right honourable Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby - Plasnewydd” Mrs and Miss Lister take the liberty of presenting their compliments to Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby, and of asking permission to see their grounds at Plâs Newyd in the course of tomorrow morning - Miss Lister, at the suggestion of Mr Banks, had intended herself the honour of calling on her Ladyship and Miss Ponsonby, and hopes she may be allowed to express her very great regret at hearing of her Ladyship’s indisposition - King’s head hotel - Saturday Evening 13 July - the message returned was that we should see the grounds at 12 tomorrow - this will prevent our going to church which begins at 11 and will not be over till after 1 - the service is principally in Welsh, except the lessons and sermon every 2nd Sunday and tomorrow is the English day - Lady Eleanor Butler has been couched - she ventured out too soon and caught cold - her medical man (Mr Lloyd Jones of Ruthen) positively refuses her seeing anyone - her cousin, Lady Mary Ponsonby, passed thro’ not long ago, and did not see her -

Wrote the above of today and the last 16 lines of yesterday from 10 to 12 1/2 after dinner - It struck 12 before I came up to bed, and I wrote 1/2 hour afterwards - Very fine day - merely a beam or 2 of sun, and no dust in consequence of the late rain - They have had scarce any rain here till this last day or 2 - They were burnt up before - Market day here - beef 6 d. per lb. veal 3 d. - 3 1/2 mutton 4 to 5 d. - E.O.. [regarding her venereal condition: one treatment, moderate discharge] a good deal of discharge both today and yesterday - Pi gave me fifteen pounds to place to her account

# Ruabon, 6 miles from Llangollen, they pronounce as if spelt Rawbon (Anglicē)

Reference: SH:7/ML/E/6/0025

[marypsue]

hormone hell

Have a few headcanons for a lady!Stanchez AU disguised as a fic. Content warning for homophobic slurs. Many thanks to the illustrious @ancientouroboros for the title!

I’m also on AO3 as MaryPSue!

...

Constance “Stan” Filomena Pines is seventeen years old, in love with her best friend, and failing grade twelve math. And biology. And chemistry. 

Honestly, she can’t really be blamed. Her sister Ford (”there’s six Bonnies in our grade, I can’t -” “well, you can’t go by Buford either!”) got all the family brains, and apparently their older sister Shermaine got both the talent and the common sense, since she blew Glass Shard Beach off years ago. Last Stan heard, she was living in New York and she was gonna break into Broadway any day now. So that just leaves Stan with the brawn, and, as she likes to tease Ford, the looks. (”We’re identical, Constance.”) 

And, obviously, she can’t know anything about biology or chemistry, because if she did, she wouldn’t be head over heels for another girl.

Again, Stan really can’t be blamed. It would be impossible to get to know Carla McCorkle at all and not fall a little bit in love with her. Which is probably why Carla has had a string of useless boyfriends and Stan hasn’t had one. It probably has nothing to do with the fact that Stan is fascinated with Carla’s dimples and the way she moves like part of the music when she dances and the smell of fresh-cut flowers that seems to follow her everywhere and her amazing legs. Definitely not. 

It might have something to do with the fact that Stan is technically a boy’s name, but there are no fewer than twelve Connies in their grade, which is double the number of Bonnies, which means she has twice the right Ford has to pick another nickname. Besides, nobody who laid eyes on her would ever mistake her for a boy. Stan makes damn sure of that. Maybe she’s not pretty, but nobody’s gonna look straight through a girl whose frankly fantastic tits are right out on display. Nobody’s gonna tell a girl who wears false eyelashes to gym class that she ‘just isn’t trying’. 

Stan could have a boyfriend. Probably. If she wanted one. She just doesn’t want one right now. 

(Because she’s in love with her best friend, and everything about that makes her want to burst into tears, because doesn’t it just fucking figure.)

...

Erika Sofia Ramirez Sanchez is seventeen years old, a high-school dropout, and living at the YWCA, and it’s none of anybody’s damn business why.

Just like the enormous spikes in electricity usage at the Y since she got there are none of anybody's business. Or where she gets the money for her room. Or what happened to the rest of her family. People are so fucking nosy in small towns. Glass Shard Beach is a hole, and she’s not planning on staying long. Just long enough to get another patent proposal together, sell that shit, scrape up a damage deposit. Get out of the fucking Y. 

Living at the YWCA does have its perks, though. For one thing, nobody cares about when she comes and goes, or where she's going, or who she's with. Nobody cares what she's doing, so long as the noise and flashing lights don't wake the neighbours at odd hours. And she doesn't brown out the whole floor again. 

For another thing, there's a gym. Erika's never cared much about bodybuilding or whatever, but there's a punching bag. She doesn't know anything about boxing and doesn't care enough to learn, but there's something she really likes about having something around to kick the crap out of that can't hit back.

Which is why, when she stumbles into the gym at about four in the afternoon and there's already somebody using the punching bag, her first impulse is to storm over and make that fucker give it back.

...

Stan doesn’t notice the other girl until she has to stop to catch her breath. That’s when she realizes she’s being watched. She steps back from the punching bag, breathing hard, too hard to say anything when she locks eyes with the tall girl who’s staring at her like Stan’s a riddle she’s trying to figure out.

She’s not pretty. But there’s something about her that catches Stan’s eye and keeps it there. She’s tall, and rawboned, long-faced and scowling. Her clothes are clean and in good repair, but worn at the hems and anywhere her stickman limbs bend, stretched shapeless by too many washes. Obviously secondhand. Stan should know, all of her clothes are the same.

At least Stan has style, though. This girl looks like she’s actually trying to avoid being noticed. If she has any curves, the straight, square cut of her plain grey t-shirt and bluejeans are hiding them, her mousy hair is scraped back in a utilitarian, messy ponytail, and she’s not wearing any makeup. She hasn’t even groomed the bush of ash-blond eyebrow crossing over her long, narrow nose.

She looks like she’s never spent a second on her appearance in her life. Not like the girls Stan knows who work really hard to look like they don’t care what they look like. She looks like she actually doesn’t give a damn what other people see when they look at her, and there’s something about it that’s…

Well. That’s hot as hell.

She's still standing there staring, though, like some kind of creep. Stan rubs the back of one wrapped hand across her forehead, catching a few rivulets of sweat before they run into her eyes. "Hey, take a picture, it'll last longer."

Unibrow girl doesn't look away. There's something almost challenging in her stare. Stan doesn't want to be the first to blink.

"What, what's with the staring? You some kinda dyke?" Stan blurts, feeling shaken, feeling brave. The word comes out like a slap, stings the inside of her mouth. She says it again, just because she finally has an excuse to. "You look like a dyke."

This finally pulls a reaction out of unibrow girl, though not the one Stan was expecting. The side of her narrow mouth quirks up into a smile, and she says, "T-takes one to know one."

Stan knows better than to mistake the stutter for fear.

Almost without her input, her hands ball back into fists. Stan throws a left hook at the punching bag, feigning nonchalance.

"You're still staring," she says, after a few more punches.

Unibrow girl puts her head to one side. "You d-didn't tell me to stop."

Stan doesn't actually have a good response to that, so she goes back to doing what she does best: punching.

By the time she's run through her repertoire two times more, the burn in her arms and shoulders has started to turn into leaden exhaustion, and unibrow girl's starting to look bored. Stan steps back from the punching bag, sweeping the stray hairs that had escaped her messy topknot back out of her face. 

"All yours," she says to unibrow girl, as she steps off the mat. She can see the curious look unibrow girl gives her, but forces herself to keep walking, pretend she's not there.

Still, Stan can feel the other girl's eyes on her back all the way into the locker room.

[cavaliar-art]

❅ D E A R R A B B I T ❅

Arcovet’s magic eye rolled from his oesophagus like a snake from a burrow, slithering until it peaked beyond his maw and abandoned his cadaver of a face to a disturbing - slightly waterlogged - vacancy. It sparked with the residue of evaporated gore, drawing interwoven aqua-crimson mists in it's wake. He looked ahead: Rows and rows and rows in the deluge, not a single heartbeat falling off-key. Black walls of green lights. Beyond them, a black sky, eye severed; below, a shudder; above, a tempest; and behind, a million lightless lightships bleeding a forsaking darkness.

His master of a time-long-before had carved a pathway of emerald flame. He followed along it chirping, singing, the wet hailstorm blurry before him.

His old friends must've been nearby, because he smelled them: thick blood - cursed blood. He might've called to them, but this was the playtime of the lone wolf, a hallowed game. Tag, they called it, darting and chasing and screaming and sobbing as their limbs left them.

Thump-thump; violent beating, thousandfold - in front, underneath, to his side. He knew this song well; so many had taught him: those of the warmth; those sentinels of his cold, crushing, diamond desert; those who had beckoned to him from the depths of the Flood... and so he obliged the chorus and joined in.

Unnatural gore drowned his jaw, his eye sockets, his ear canal, spilt through the pores in his thick rawhide. He drew his black mace, cold saronite with a thick cloak of shadow-- waning, waxing, a midnight of onyx clouds heeding doom, a moon of stark blood-diamond-- with a chattering bare-boned grimace.

The runes lit into blood-red constellations peppered into symbols on a map of darkness. And then the metallic casing began to spin, growl, ground, grind. His eye returned home, perfect, through the looking-glass, firmly throned with prestige in its bloody abscess. One eye, slit, perched in the right socket like an aquamarine indented into abstract art.

His instinct-- conditioning-- took control, and there lurched a sudden lack of his lacking mind. His hindpaws splashed and crunched bone-dust as he raced forwards. His claws came upon a creature’s chest; felflame heated his hand, blurred his vision even more, its bowels severed from its chords, infernal words spewed like green rot-blood. And then he was upon the next creature- Or is this the same one, Covet?-; a felguard, and their weapons joined, growled, ground, drew apart. Every sentence was a bloodbath. Every word beckoned forth a blinking eye into the great Nether. Each letter, a new reason to reap wrath. Pauses, breaks, and breaths brought life and death one step closer together.

Fight. Rush. Flight … Hush:

'The Valley of Hearts; And it's protean God, buried, throned in bone-dust Soil, beckoning: Up-reaching it’s claw of magic architecture--one nail in particular, And the under-veins, a paradigm of fatal futures; umbriferous, beckoning: Wounds spilling wounds, wording more still? Oh. Would we work with weaklings;… Thoughts crumble so very easily, so our true thoughts sprout forth, beckoning: This foliage was telling. Life, death - usually both so reticent - interwoven in an embrace of fear, Death’s face etched onto life’s vibrant skin, scarred her, arms entangled, divaricating, beckoning: But no one looked at the trees. No- war, so often present in hearts, Closing the un-galvanised gates of supreme Kairos, rawboned and beckoning: Endings are innately laconic, malediction of brevity, stalled and they cease--’

--He took a firm blow to the muzzle. A crack sounded, muffled by the fire, flurry and flame, more bone for the soil. A twelfth of his skull, a puzzle. He continued onwards with the slaughter, unnoticing, for his mind was busy hoarding it’s supreme spoils.

The night plummeted into the darkest ocean. That was why the moon was white: frozen by the sea. He pressed jet paint to torn canvas; he dipped his hands into the black wax until he was covered, and then he spread his corpse into the mud, filled all his wounds with the blood of earth. He was the death, he was the war, he was the loss, he was the reaping, he was the pain, all overcast notions. He dragged them and held them into his lungs, and squeezed and sucked until their breath was his; the edges of their heart burst; he drew his children to his maw and swallowed them back down, the maggots to whom he had given birth.

‘--stalled, and they seize nonexistence, cold and raw, reckoning.'

He rumbled with the breathing of a hundred alien hearts nestled beneath his dead hide.

Connected with a makeshift amalgamation of a thousand bloods, his cardiac constellation exchanged fluid as violent and rapid as passing detonated grenades. Friend and foe alike could hear it's siren; thump-thump-thump-thump; endlessly ticking; thump-thump-thump-thump-; muffled; thump-thump-thump-thump-; a crescendo of puppeteered life displayed with pride.

It unnerved even this foe, so large and foreboding with its onyx horns, scaled grey skin, neon eyes shining brighter than Death, its wolf-sized blades. This one knew Deathknights. It had just said so, in fact. Arcovet had forgotten what conversation was; it didn't occur to him to reply.

The wolf rose his chin and gazed into the heights. There, high above, he saw the new alpha basking, washing the Pass with godly benevolence, so beguiling and beautiful.

The others would tell him to eat his pets. They would take them away until he forfeited, and paid his so-called ‘debts’. He always felt so sad, so cold as he brought their darkly outcome. But he loved them.

It was different now: fate's golden claw would shine upon his white-furred innocents, so benevolent and beguiling and beautiful. In the shadow of light there was more light; in the light of shadow there is more shadow. He was aegis-bound, he was dutiful.

And he had almost forgotten the fight; verse after verse after verse and you begin to lose track: but the Wrathguard was dead, grey skin made purple, horns shattered -- and now it was that death shone brighter than his once-neon eyes.

As the body withered to dust and returned to the nether, a whisper entered his mind: time to come home, Arcovet. 13 - 9 - 2019

[blackkatmagic]

Tatterdemalion Dreams

This is a coda to Ragtag Heroes, not really intended to become a separate thing but my attempt to get into Sirius’s head. Excuse me while I upend my drabble bin over your heads. :D

Sirius's little brother has always been just that—little. Regulus was a slight and slender child, and has grown into a lean and lithe man, a little too thin and rawboned from constant stress but still pretty in the way that their parents always despaired of. Sirius can admit, despite his hatred of her, that Walburga Black was an absolutely stunning woman, and Regulus takes after her very much in looks.

Not so much in personality, though, regardless of what Sirius thought as a child. Not after what he’s managed to accomplish.

Slumped in a dusty old armchair, Sirius watches his brother wander around Grimmauld Place’s library, touching covers, stroking long fingers over worn spines. This is Reggie’s element and always has been—Sirius was honestly astonished that he ended up in Slytherin rather than Ravenclaw, during the Sorting. Regulus as a child, in Sirius's mind, was forever clutching a book, sometimes as big as himself, and wandering around with a dreamy, distant expression. He thinks of it with a bit of a pang, now, because at some point during his first year at Hogwarts that warm burst of fondness at the sight of his little brother, forever trying to please everyone, transformed into something sneering and derisive and passively loathing.

Regulus being sorted into Slytherin was the final straw, and Sirius, already immersed in being different from their parents and surrounded by Gryffindors who held the same beliefs, had turned his back on Regulus, not about to associate himself with a sniveling follower.

Never mind the fact that Regulus was eleven. Never mind that their parents had always leaned harder on Regulus, who was never nearly as willful. Never mind that Regulus adored Sirius since birth, as the only one who spent any amount of time with him outside of the house elves. Sirius had turned away, found a new brother in James who suited him so much better, and left without a backwards glance.

Their parents were never kind, even to the family favorite, and Sirius watches Regulus meander through the shelves with something like guilt roiling in his gut. Should have known, he thinks, and the vague, distant regret he’s felt since learning of his brother’s death is back in full force, because Sirius had run away from the family and left Regulus behind. It doesn’t matter that they were at odds at the time; Regulus was always a gentle soul, always tried to please their parents no matter what. Sirius could have easily taken him along to James’s, could have convinced him to abandon their parents’ ideals if only he’d remembered the sweet little boy Regulus had been, rather than looking at the distant, aloof Black prince he’d been forcibly molded into.

But he didn’t, hadn’t bothered, and something in Sirius is—

“Leo Prince,” Regulus says unexpectedly, making Sirius jump.

“What?” Sirius asks, blinking.

When he looks up, Regulus is giving him that nostalgic you're-a-moron-Siri-and-must-I-lower-myself-to-your-level look. He’s seen it quite often—usually from the child Regulus used to be, excited about some obscure spell or ritual or potion, some little-known aspect of ancient magical theory that lost Sirius completely about twelve words into the explanation. Not that he’s an idiot, academically—Sirius has always been proud of his grades—but Regulus is something entirely different. Even their parents never quite knew what to do with him, beyond shipping him off to Voldemort in a gift-wrapped package.

“Yes, Reggie?” Sirius grins at his little brother, for the sole reason that the nickname drives him batty and nothing gets his ire up like pretending to be stupid. “What was that?”

Regulus rolls his eyes so hard Sirius wonders how he doesn’t strain something. “My name,” he explains, tone long-suffering, “for teaching at Hogwarts.”

Sirius turns it over in his head for a moment. “Leo?” he repeats dubiously, because outwardly Regulus is the perfect Slytherin, and whenever he’s not being Slytherin he gives a damned good impression of being a born Ravenclaw. Nothing leonine about him, really.

That gets him another roll of Regulus's eyes, though it’s subtler this time. “The star Regulus is the brightest heavenly body in the constellation Leo,” he says, and his mouth quirks in a wry smile. “Also called ‘the Heart of the Lion’.”

Sirius snorts at that, wondering what twist of fate gave Regulus the one Black name that suited him exactly. ‘Heart of the Lion’ indeed. “And Prince?”

“From the literal meaning of my name.” Regulus turns back to his books again, plucking one off the shelf and adding it to the already sizeable pile he’ll be taking to Hogwarts with them. “’Little King’. It’s a name I’ve used before, in parts of the Continent. So if a particularly overprotective parent should try to trace my movements, there will be a trail. Leo Prince spent two years in Italy and then Eastern Europe, studying blood rituals from ancient times.”

Of course he did, Sirius thinks with a roll of his own eyes. He’s spent several weeks already with Hermione, and even she can't hold a candle to his little brother. But rather than say anything—although it’s tempting, because Reggie being defensive over his rituals and spells is easily one of the more amusing things Sirius has ever encountered—he just asks, “And disguises? It’s more than likely that Peter told Voldemort about my Animagus form, and I hate to say it, Reggie, but you—”

“Yes, yes,” Regulus cuts him off, clearly annoyed. He’s always been easy for Sirius to rile. “We look very similar, I'm aware. Harry thought I was you, at first glance.”

Sirius blinks and fights a frown. Regulus is pretty, and Sirius has always considered himself—not without corroboration from other sources—to be handsome. Then he glances up, catches the tail end of Regulus's wicked grin as the younger Black turns away, and huffs. “Oh, go on, rub it in,” he growls, chucking a cushion at his smirking brother. “At least I take after Father rather than dearest Mother in looks, pretty boy.”

That earns him a rude hand gesture and a scowl. “Anyway,” Regulus says forcefully. “I won't use charms to change my appearance—they're too easily detected and broken, even by the simplest of wards or spells. But…” He trails off, rummaging in a cupboard for a moment, and then, with a victorious sound, emerges holding a pair of glasses with delicate silver frames. He slips them onto his face, then pulls his hair from its loose tail and twists it into a messy braid falling over his shoulder.

They're simple changes, but they're able to highlight the differences between them. Sirius sits up straighter, taking in the way the glasses manage to entirely change Regulus's face, and the hairstyle gives him a bookish, distracted, professorly air. With a change of clothes—good-quality robes, he thinks, maybe a little tattered, quiet colors, slightly too large—Regulus will be all but unrecognizable. Oh, there will be similarities, but there used to be a pureblood Prince family, and they intermarried with the Blacks enough to write off the resemblance as a result of typically tangled pureblood genealogy.

Regulus is giving Sirius the same look in return, but his is faintly distracted. “You, however,” he murmurs, “will need a charm or two, if only to keep from giving any of the more superstitious students a heart attack, looking like a Grim.” He trails off, muttering under his breath, his gaze absent, and Sirius realizes that this is his contemplative look. He’s no doubt running through every glamour charm he knows, cataloguing faults and weaknesses.

Such a Ravenclaw, really, Sirius thinks, and doesn’t even bother to fight the fond smile that rises. Good old Reggie, the walking encyclopedia of spells.

Then Regulus looks up at him and smiles that singularly angelic smile that means he’s about to show how he and Sirius really are related. He taps long fingers against his lips to hide the beginnings of a smirk, and murmurs, “Well, you're the size of a bear, so there's no way we’ll actually be able to pass you off as a normal dog, but…white, I think. Yes, white will do nicely. Maybe with a touch of tan?”

Sirius only has a moment to feel horrified before Regulus's wand is out and moving.

“Well?” his little brother demands, sounding unnervingly like McGonagall. “Change already, we haven’t got all day.”

It’s going to be a very long year indeed.

It’s been a near age since Regulus last set foot on Hogwarts ground. He stands just outside the gates, staring up at the vast and imposing castle—strangely comforting, a home more than Grimmauld place could ever be, and he wonders if it’s like that for everyone. Perhaps only those from broken homes, if the Black family can count as such. Sirius, at least, had the Potters, but Regulus was always a distant, aloof child with few acquaintances and fewer friends. He had no one.

Unconsciously, his fingers curl into the thick fur of the beast standing at his side, higher than his waist and as big as a bear. White fur now, rather than black, but it’s still Sirius, still his brother brought back to him. Maybe everything isn't entirely easy between them yet, but they’ve been strangers longer than they’ve been family, and they're readjusting. Sirius whines softly and bumps against his hip, and Regulus musters up a smile for him.

“I'm fine, Siri,” he murmurs, although his fingers stay buried in pale fur. “Just…overwhelmed, a little.”

Normally he’d never admit to such a thing, but this is Hogwarts and he’s coming back and there's absolutely nothing in the world he’s dreamed of more than destroying the Dark Lord with his brother at his side and the Light at this back. This is a step closer, the fifth out of seven, and then there's only the snake left to find. Regulus has thrown out his net already; there are many people who owe him favors by now, with his knowledge base and skill set and Slytherin cunning, and Nagini will be found soon enough.

Just Ravenclaw’s artefact now, and then Harry. Their goal is so close, so achingly close that Regulus can almost taste it, and after sixteen unwavering years, he’s ready. Ready for a normal life, a death not at the hands of his former master, days not spent running from even the vaguest chance that Voldemort could discover him or his plans. It’s been too long.

With a huff of very un-canine impatience, Sirius shoves at him again and then heads up the road, strides sure and confident. Regulus only hesitates for a moment longer before hurrying to catch up with him, careful of his baggy robes. He hates them, if only for Sirius's teasing at how he looks like a waifish scholar who thinks too much to eat. Not that Sirius is one to talk, really—he’s changed from looking like a Grim to looking like something out of Norse myth that’s about to devour the sun.

But Sirius is happy to be out of that dreary and rundown house, and Regulus can't blame him. About the only good thing remaining there is Kreacher, and the elf is getting on in years. He’d been overjoyed that Regulus returned, but as much as Regulus missed him he hadn’t been able to bring himself to stay. He’d packed everything he needed in a day and headed out to Hogwarts and his new post, Sirius in tow. They're quite a pair, really.

McGonagall meets them at the main doors, still regal and authoritative in a way Blacks can only dream of being, but she smiles faintly at Regulus. “Professor Prince,” she says. “How good to have you back. If you'll follow me, I will show you to your chambers.”

This is happening, Regulus thinks suddenly, as his heart stutters and leaps forward into a gallop. This is real.

Professor, she called him, and that’s what he is now. No longer a nameless, fleeing face but a person, a figure of some standing, with a name and a past even if it isn't his own.

That’s…pleasing.

[astramessiah]

One foot in another world.

30 multipurpose prompts

    ❝ MAMA, WHERE DO people go when they leave on their ships? ❞ Anakin turns in his mother’s arms, wide eyes blue enough to encompass the memory of an ocean Shmi can sometimes see when she closes her eyes.

     ❝ Many places, Ani. There’s an entire galaxy out there. ❞ She can feel the sadness that weighs down her smile, shadowing the sunbeaten lines && edges she carries from so many years under twin suns. She wishes she could give her son more then this— a single weathered cot && and existence where his worth is measured by manual labor. She would show him stars she herself had never seen.

     ❝ An entire galaxy… ❞ Anakin repeats, awe wearing his voice to a whisper. The young are so easy to impress. But Anakin has a fire inside of him that soon simple stories won’t be able to quench. When Shmi looks to the future, when she finds she can bear to, she sees Anakin dancing on distant stars, his smile across constellations— making an image from the infinite. Something inside her sings that Anakin is destined for more than this. But it says nothing of Shmi.

               Once, she would have been angry to be forgotten by fate. Now she sees it as a tender mercy. When the fated fall, worlds fall with them.

     ❝ You’ve always had one foot in another world. ❞ She says fondly of him, a hand tugging clumps of dirt free from his golden tresses.

               He looks at her again, but something in his expression makes her stop. He suddenly looks so much older than his five years. ❝ I don’t think I’m going to be here very long, Mama. ❞

               Shmi nods, tears stinging her eyes. ❝ I know, Mah wei. I know. ❞

               The first time Anakin realizes it he’s six years old, all rawboned limbs && bubbling energy. He feels like he could hold Tatoo I in his hands && not be burned. He feels like he could swallow it whole. It’d be nothing compared to the heat crawling under his skin, the itch of lightning that zips across his nerves, burrowing into his marrow && setting his entire body alight. There is a song in the air— but it’s not the air, it’s his mind. He sees colors with no name, coalescing on a desert breeze that blows within his very soul. He tastes unfiltered starlight on his tongue, leaning forward into a labyrinth of light whose every turning whispers the secrets of the world.

               Then he wakes, having slumped over the work bench sometime ago. The light && song are still there, but muffled by reality, dusty && unfocused as an old optic lens.

               It’s been sixth months since Watto bought them, && Anakin does his best to stay on the toydarian’s good side. But sometimes that isn’t enough.

     ❝ Get out of my way you stupid woman! ❞ Watts’s voice echoes through the junk shop, following sound of something falling && shattering. ❝ Look what you did now? Can’t you do anything right? Worthless slave! ❞ Anakin’s hears the distinct sound of skin meeting skin, followed by his mother’s pained whimpers.

               His stomach goes cold, seething red mists his vision. All Anakin can focus on is the sound of Watto beating his mother. He can’t control his feet, he’s moving before he knows it, running to her side. He feels the heat from his dream return, only this time its at his fingertips, turning on a star inside of him. He is burning.

      ❝ Don’t touch her! ❞ There’s a roar behind his words, an inhuman chord— shining, wild, unhoned. Something unfurls inside of him like the fronds of plant, slamming into Watto && sending him into the far wall with a sick thud. The toydarian slides onto the floor, groaning, bleeding from a spot on his temple, but still alive.

               Anakin flushes his disappointment && shame. It’s only now that he notices his mother’s arms around him, her voice soft, soothing away the static noise in his head.

               She calls him words like darling, like child, like safe. None of these words are an explanation for how that was the first time he truly felt alive. How one, incandescent moment of destruction, was all he needed to feel whole.

——

               When Qui-Gon comes for him, his unsmiling apprentice at one side, && an angel at the other, Anakin knows this is what they’ve been waiting for. Not just him, but his mother too.

     ❝ I’m scared, Mom. ❞ Shmi squeezes him tight, but there is no consolation for the inevitable.

     ❝ I know, Mah wei. But this your path. Master Jinn said it himself. ❞ She misses him already. But loving a messiah means loving a thing that isn’t yours and can never fully be yours. && Shmi accepted her son’s fate even before she knew it.

     ❝ But I won’t be with you. ❞ Anakin’s eyes fill with tears. Oh her darling, beautiful, powerful boy. The stars gave him to you for this Skywalker. Swallow your greed, give him the galaxy.

     ❝ I will always be with you, Ani. On every star, in every life. You need only think of me. ❞ She hugs him again, && this time she cannot stop herself from crying too.

     ❝ You’re meant for another world, Anakin. ❞

I love you.

Mom—

Don’t look back.

[sinisterexaggerator]

How about the Duros bois reacting to their respective ladies accidentally calling them ‘daddy’ during sex? 😏

@kittycat-kai - Do not hate me! ;D I went with my instincts on Cad, then I couldn't get what @weirdlet said out of my head, so Suurgav just can't help himself.

"Harder, daddy!"

Warnings: SMUT BELOW THE CUT - NSFW 18+. Dirty talk, penis in vagina sex, two dongs in Cad's case, but no DP this time. Ass grabbing, humor.

Word count: 641

***

Cad Bane had holstered one Durosian dick inside your twitching cunt. He rammed you without quarter, but you couldn’t get enough. The second of his cocks rested between your ass cheeks. He had smooshed them both together in a makeshift sheath.

His rawboned fingers dug into your rotund rump as he grit his fangs, one snaggletooth exposed in a display of near-to aggressive rapture. He loved the way your flesh jiggled as it bounced when he fucked you from behind. So soft and warm, round and fun to squeeze  - he was near to a climax when you uttered two simple words: “Harder, daddy.”

Cad slowed his tempo; his brow ridge knitted inward as his forehead crinkled in mild disgust. He responded to you, his voice husky and lacquered with disdain. “No.”

“What?” you asked, somewhat frowning. You had thought that he might like that. You had bothered to take the risk, not assuming that he would mind.

“Ah said no.” He picked up his pace again, perhaps more so out of anger or agitation than because he truly wanted to. He groped you tighter as you bear down against the table – you had been bent over for quite some time.

You decided you liked this newfound combativeness; it only made him plow you without remorse. You tried again just to be a brat – not expecting what came next.

“That’s it, just like that, mm, daddy…”

Bane pulled right out of you. He rose and released his lock. He grabbed his hat from where it rested – he pushed it down atop his head and zipped his pants up.

“B-Bane?” you stuttered out as you rose to your full height. He didn’t say a word. He walked right out your door - it slammed closed and he was gone.

You pouted. You wondered if your short romance was over, for you knew the bounty hunter was one to hold a grudge – you should have listened to him.

***

You had been feeling frisky; you had managed to coax a Duros to your quarters. Now Shriv Suurgav was nestled into your warm mammalian vagina as he held you up in his big, strong arms against the wall.

You hadn’t made it to the bed; it was just as well. You were so enthralled with him you would take it anywhere.

His long, thin fingers grasped your ass as he used the muscles in his biceps to keep you held aloft. He was crooning in your ear, his soft breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Mm, harder daddy.” you cooed for him.

His rhythm slowed; he had paused, though he exuded a small sound that was reminiscent of a purr or a kind of rumble.

Shriv was new to all of this, but he would try his best. You nearly laughed at what he said.

“Oh, yeah?” he whispered to you, grinning from one side of his long face to the other. He spoke salaciously, his throaty voice taking on notes of an almost casual seduction.

“Why don’t you clean your room, you dirty girl…”

You choked; you couldn’t help it. He continued, not letting your reaction stop him.

“You’re terrible, filthy, I oughtta sspank you for being so naughty …”

“OK, no, stop.” You sputtered with a laugh. Instead of letting it bruise his ego, he went farther with it.

“Gonna make you finish all that homework … and you’re gonna do the dishes too while you’re at it.” He jerked his hips; you let out an abject mewl.

“And don’t forget dinner’s at 7 sharp.” he snidely reminded you. “-you’re the main course so don’t be late, sweetheart.”

Your arousal had almost left you, but somehow Suurgav had made that hot. You kissed him full flush on the mouth to finally shut him up.

---

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