#ceiling paint color rules

[acewithapaintbrush]

Saw @artsymeeshee hospital sketches of the sea grunks and thought to myself, is this finally my time to write some brotherly angst for these two? The answer is yes. Short but sweet, please enjoy.

******************************

The first thing Stan becomes aware of is the noise.

A constant beeping right next to his ear. Loud and high-pitched and repetitive and unfortunately very familiar to an old grifter with bad luck like him. He would be a lot more annoyed with this sound if his last clear memory wasn't of roaring waters rushing past his ears, stealing his hearing and leaving nothing but white noise behind.

He'd rather take the beeping.

Next comes taste, which, ugh! He could have gone without that! The feel of scratchy sheets is not much better but it tells him that he is in one of the better hospitals. Believe it or not, the better the hospital, the scratchier the sheets. Ford should cool it with the mystical beasts and research what's up with that!

Speaking of Ford.

Stan keeps his breathing even as he slowly opens his eyes. The light has been dimmed in anticipation and he blinks a couple times at a ceiling that is painted a nondescript beige color. He looks at it for a moment and for some strange reason he suddenly feels a fierce urge to video call Mabel.

But first things first.

Stan slowly turns his head to the side which actually hurts. Don't they have him on the good stuff?

Just as he expected, there is his brother. Ford has squeezed himself into the same bed as Stan, facing his brother's prone form. Stan can't help but smile. His brother must have bullied the nurses into letting him stay. The bed is way too small for two grown men but somehow the genius has managed to practically fold himself into a compact ball, leaving enough room for all those fancy machines connected to the patient. One of his hands lightly rests against Stan's chest which he hasn't even noticed until now.

Ford's eyes are closed but he is mumbling under his breath, reciting one of his journal entries from memory.

Stan winces. His brother must be really rattled by this little mishap.

‘Great job giving the guy another thing to worry about, Stanley!’

“I think climbing into the hospital bed with the patient is against the rules, Sixer? You are not supposed to do that.”

He was going for levity and humor but his hoarse voice kinda ruins that.

Ford's eyes don't snap open. He doesn't gasp or jerk upright or anything like that. Instead he takes a shuddering breath and deliberately opens his eyes. They find Stanley immediately and there is not a hint of surprise in them. Stan wonders how long Ford has known that he's awake.

“Same to you,” Ford says and his voice is so flat it causes a shiver to run down Stan's spine.

“Hey, s’not like I planned for this to happen.”

“I would be very cross with you if you had planned falling overboard, Stanley.”

Ford's emotions still feel weirdly flat. He isn't even lecturing and scolding Stan for his reckless behavior, just presses his six-fingered hand against his chest and stares at him with those blank eyes.

“I'm alright.” Stan shifts so he can face his brother and, damn, those ribs are definitely cracked. He briefly wonders if that happened in the fall or whether someone had to do CPR on him and quickly decides that maybe he doesn't want to know. Close call. Much too close. “I'm alright, Ford,” he repeats as if that makes it true.

For the first time an emotion flickers through Ford's face. He narrows his eyes and for a moment Stan thinks he's angry but then a single tear runs down an unshaven cheek, immediately seeping into the pillow.

“I thought I lost you for good,” Ford whispers, voice tortured. “I couldn't find you. For the longest time. I looked and I looked and you were just… gone. I couldn't find you!”

‘Same to you,’ Stan echoes with a bit of a bitter edge, mind replaying thirty years of hunching down in a dusty basement in a matter of seconds.

But this is not about him and Stan is, no matter what some might want to tell you, not an insensitive asshole.

“You did find me,” he says. He doesn't actually know if that's true. The time after he fell into the ocean during that storm is still a bit of a mystery to him. All he remembers is the noise of the water and how cold he felt and a voice screaming his name, over and over, growing fainter with each wave crashing over his head.

But Ford needs some reassurance right now. And the best way to reassure Ford that Stan is alright is by proving his alrightness with a good, old Pines hug.

He lightly pulls at the hand on his chest and with a cut off gasp Ford immediately obliges, scooting closer until they are entwined with one another just like they were as kids when the nightmares became too much to remain separated by a bunk bed.

“You found me.” Stan repeats and ignores the tears soaking into his hospital gown.

‘That's what we do,’ he thinks with a content smile, eyes falling shut with exhaustion. ‘We always find each other again.’

[blueiscoool]

Stunning Tang Dynasty Murals in a Tomb Unearthed in China

A Tang dynasty tomb unearthed in China dates from the 700s, and the murals on its walls give an unprecedented view of daily life at the time.

Archaeologists in northern China have unearthed a centuries-old tomb decorated with stunning murals portraying daily life during the Tang dynasty, which ruled much of central and eastern China from A.D. 618 to 907.

The tomb includes never-before-seen depictions of daily life, including men threshing grain and making noodles.

One of the murals also depicts what appears to be a "Westerner" with blond hair and a beard who probably hailed from Central Asia, Victor Xiong, a professor of history at Western Michigan University who wasn't involved in the discovery, said in an email.

The tomb was discovered in 2018 during roadwork on a hillside on the outskirts of Taiyuan, the capital of China's northern Shanxi province, but archaeologists only reported on the completed excavations last month.

According to an article from China’s government-owned news agency Xinhua, an epitaph in the tomb states it was the burial place of a 63-year-old man who died in 736, as well as his wife.

The tomb consists of a single brick chamber, a door and a corridor. Scenes from life during the Tang dynasty adorn the walls of the tomb, the door, the corridor, and the platform on which the coffin was placed. The domed ceiling of the chamber is painted with what may be a dragon and phoenix.

Tomb guardians

Several figures painted near the door represent the "doorkeepers" or guardians of the tomb; they are wearing yellow robes and some have swords at their waists, according to Xinhua. Other murals portray natural landscapes, as well as men threshing grain, women grinding flour, men making noodles and women fetching water from a well.

They are rendered in the traditional "figure under a tree" style that was popular in the Shanxi region at the time, the South China Morning Post (SCMP) reported. As its name suggests, the style features people carrying out activities underneath beautifully depicted trees.

Many of the figures in the murals look like the same Chinese man and woman, and archaeologists think they may have been the two people buried in the tomb. The woman, in one scene, is dressed in a colorful gown and is leading four horses, alongside a bearded man holding a whip.

Other murals show mountains, trees and camels, and the series of paintings around the coffin may represent the Chinese tomb owner at different stages of his life, Xinhua reported.

Traditional style

The murals in the tomb appear to be well preserved. "The most familiar theme depicted in these murals is that of human figures under trees — a tradition that harks back to the Han dynasty [206 B.C. to A.D. 220]," Xiong said. Similar murals had been found in China's Xinjiang, Shandong, Shaanxi and Gansu regions.

He noted that the blond "non-Han" man leading camels has distinctive clothing. "Based on his facial features and outfit style, we can identify him as a 'Westerner,' likely a Sogdian from Central Asia," Xiong said. (The Sogdians were a trading people along the Silk Road routes between Asia and Europe at the time, living mainly in what are now Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.

He added that many of the murals gave "never-before-seen" representations of daily chores and labor during the Tang dynasty.

By Tom Metcalfe.

[leisureflame]

"I CANT THINK"

If you write, I assure you you have thought that.

Fear no more child, for I have found a solution.

it's called Rapid writing

something we learned when I was in 9th grade drama class and I cannot emphasize enough just how effective it is. Its actually what gave me the idea for my first book.

Stop what you are doing and do what I tell you

go grab either a pencil and paper (or open an empty document)

set a timer for 2 minutes

ask a friend to give you a random sentence. I have a few examples that I myself rapid wrote to: a) I looked around and saw b) the old lady hung from the ceiling and laughed c) purple paint dripped from her long purple fingernails d) there is a hole in my ceiling. e) when I am sad I... f) When you close the door, I... g) there is a wooden door with a gold doorknob

Now the most important thing is not to think of this sentence before you start writing. as soon as you decide which one if you are choosing from my examples (or as soon as you hear it if you are getting if from a friend), start the timer.

start writing the sentence and without hesitating just keep writing. the #1 rule here is to not stop or hesitate for a single second until the 2 minutes are over. you can write nonsense if you want and if you REALLY can't continue then write some random words for a couple of seconds then continue AS LONG AS YOU ARE STILL WRITING.

another rule is that you are not allowed to delete. even if its a spelling error, just ignore it.

after the timer is done, I promise you will have something to work with. now copy the paragraph you wrote and paste it below, here you can start fixing spelling errors and adding things at your own pace because now the creative side of your brain has opened.

don't think about the way you are writing or the words you use, think about the story you are telling. the idea.

Sometimes you will get something beautiful and deep like I did here:

When I am sad I go to my blanket, not many people know about it, all they think is happening is that a child likes to cuddle in a blanket, but no. my blanket has a special thing about it, it is a magical blanket, well, not the blanket itself but the embroidery on the blanket, it simply takes my sadness away but it adds the story of my emotions to the embroidery, my blanket is a very pretty one, it is a pastel blue color and it has so much silk embroideries that you just think its patterns, but it isn't, if you look deeper you will find stories every one of those stories came from someones tears... my tears. whenever i cry, i wipe my tears with my blanket and my pain goes but my story stays.

or

there is a wooden door with a gold doorknob on the door there is a painting of you, and there are many locks on the door from top to bottom, when you open the door, there is a mirror. this door is the door to self discovery, from the outside there is a painting of how people think you look like but when you open the door, you get to see what you really are in detail and look at yourself they way you want to, you can smile or cry and the refection on the mirror will change but on the painting, it doesn't show ur emotions, just how people see you usually.

or you can get something so stupid like i did here:

there is a hole in the ceiling in my classroom. everyday a dinosaur would a pear and eat my lunch and i keep coming home hungry but my mom dsays she packed me enough food. so she didn't feed me. i told her a dinasour was eating my lunch but she said that disasours only live in Norway! so i went into the school vents looking for that idino and revenge my food, we met at last, held our weapons, i was holding a subway sandwich and the dino was holding a bana na MY BANANA  i lost it, so i attacked him one hit on the head and the whole species were extinct , people thousand of years from now said dinos got extinct because of a meteorite but i know better, also i am still alive because whoever kills a dino becomes immortal, also i killed my mom for not believing me and let her starve in her grave just like she let made me starve. and then i killed everyone who was a flat earther because i hate them and now i can kill anyone once i tap them with my super subway sandwich 

(by the way, ignore the horrible spelling, the examples i gave were from the unedited version.)

THE POINT IS ITS ACTUALLY SO HELPFUL. you can use it for a new story idea (i used the blanket one as an element in one of my WIPs and it helped the story a lot) or if you get something stupid like the dino one I wrote THATS GOOD THATS FINE because now you have your creativity going.

I challenge you to actually try this and PLEASE share it with me I LOVE reading other peoples rapid writings. have fun <3

tagging @cosmosandcapybaras24 @ajsbookshelf @gloryofdawn, @chaoticharmony93 @deception-united and anyone else who's interested to try this out and share with me!

[nyoomerr]

Fic prompt: SY is the chosen cleric of LBH, the world's most possessive divine emperor, accent on the divine. He did not sign up for this. (Meanwhile, LBH is trying to figure out how he can fit a divine empress into this pantheon)

i actually got very into this AU once i thought about it for 0.5 seconds, so here's a lil drabble that i hope to expand on and put on ao3 in the future ;>

---

Shen Yuan wouldn’t consider himself to be particularly religious. He believed in the gods, of course - the proof of their existence is written on every street corner and under every roof. The lights of the city that have no discernible power source outside of the goddess of invention herself, the unemptiable food basket that had been gifted to Shen Yuan’s father by the god of plenty, the buzz of raw energy in the air each weekend when the city gathers to say its prayers. 

Undoubtedly, Shen Yuan had grown up in a city blessed by the gods, so naturally he believes in them. He just doesn’t much care for them.

A city blessed by the gods is also a city kept by them, after all. No inventions that could possibly be construed as a weapon would ever be approved by the ministry of creation. No civil courts existed when the gods could directly send down divine punishment to sinners.

No life in the city would ever survive if the gods found it unworthy.

Shen Yuan knew, objectively, why the rules of the gods were so strict. Divine Emperor Luo wrote them himself, and each one had been crafted specifically to prevent the sort of strife and abuse that he had witnessed when he was a mere mortal. Every schoolchild learns the story of the pitiful Luo Binghe who struggled to reach the heavens, faced every day with proof of humanity’s dishonor and ugliness.

When that pathetic Luo Binghe had awakened his blood as the Divine Emperor, he’d immediately sought to rewrite the rules of the heavens to fix the issues he’d seen as a mortal. It made sense. It even worked, to some objective degree of measurement: starvation and war between human lands was barely heard of, these days.

Shen Yuan casts his eyes up to the ceiling of the chapel. A mural of Divine Emperor Luo is painted in bright splashes of color, his eyes piercing down at the viewer as he holds a drink in one hand and a woman in the other. An image of wealth and wellness; a warning to stay in line if you wish for a similar happy ending. 

Shen Yuan thinks that the Divine Emperor must truly have had a hard life, to rule as such an immature god. A child that never got the chance to grow up freely, now imposing their black-and-white outlook of life on an entire land of people who are mature enough to understand that life isn’t so simple.

Shen Yuan looks back down, peering through barely open eyes at his feet. He isn’t supposed to have his eyes open at all, during prayer. It’s just - despite the issues he has with the gods’ reign, and despite the apathy he feels in place of admiration or piety, he really can’t help but think - 

How pitiful, to have ascended without first understanding the joy of being human. How sad, to have your ‘happy ending’ worshiped by the masses without understanding it yourself, believing it to be good only because it follows your own strict rules. 

Shen Yuan sighs, a quiet release of air in the quiet of the chapel.

His next breath in feels electric. 

The vaulted ceilings of the chapel suddenly feel claustrophobic. The quiet hum of hands rubbing against hands in silent prayer rises to a crescendo of skin and movement and life. What low light the candles lining the pews had provided now burns as brightly as the light of a hundred divine lanterns, but there isn’t anywhere Shen Yuan can cast his eyes towards that is less shocking to look at. 

And there, at the front of the chapel, is a god. 

Shen Yuan’s breath catches. He can’t look away. The god is beautiful; more divine than any blessing that Shen Yuan has ever witnessed. 

He is also looking directly at Shen Yuan, meeting his gaze through half lidded eyes and with the laziness of an apex predator. 

Around Shen Yuan, the other church-goers have begun to break from their prayers, startled and choking on the divine presence around them. Many of them dare to sneak peeks at the descended god, but none of them seem able to look directly at him, their eyes sliding off of him before they quickly duck their heads and take up the pose of prayer once more.

Shen Yuan still can’t look away.

Slowly, the god steps down from the pulpit and begins to approach. He doesn’t bother to look at Shen Yuan as he moves forward, casually glancing around the chapel as if assessing it. His eyes catch on the mural on the ceiling - his own face looking down at him, though paling in comparison to the beauty and power of the real thing. 

And then he pulls his eyes back to Shen Yuan, and Shen Yuan realizes with a start that he’s stopped walking, standing directly in front of the pew Shen Yuan is sitting in.

Shen Yuan wets his lips. His pulse beats jack-rabbit fast in his throat.

“Divine Emperor Luo,” he greets. “How - how can I serve you?”

The weight of the Divine Emperor’s attention is no lighter than if Shen Yuan had held the entire ocean on his shoulders. He looks at Shen Yuan as if he might eat him, and expects Shen Yuan to thank him for the honor of filling a divine stomach.

“Do you think you can?” He asks, and Shen Yuan shudders at the sound of his voice. An infinitely powerful being, and he’s speaking to Shen Yuan as if Shen Yuan were a peculiarity, something fit to either be played with or disposed of once the god has finished assessing him. 

“Can I - um, my apologies, Divine Emperor, can I…?”

“Serve me,” The gods says. “Or did you offer such a thing unthinkingly?”

Shen Yuan stares at him. Divine Emperor Luo stares back, his gaze sharp as he takes Shen Yuan in. 

“Can you,” Divine Emperor Luo says, voice low and dangerous, “serve a god that you see as pitiful?”

Shen Yuan jerks back as if slapped. How useless would it be to say that he hadn’t meant it? If a god can hear any thought about them, not only directed prayers - for certainly, Shen Yuan’s private ruminations about the tragedy of Luo Binghe’s story had been nothing like a prayer, and yet they had clearly been heard - then there is no point in lying. If Shen Yuan were to claim one thing with his mouth and another with his mind, he’d only be branded one of the many sinners to be smited by the Divine Emperor’s just hand. Deceit was hardly looked favorably upon; to lie to a god that could hear the truth from your own mind would be suicide. 

Shen Yuan hesitates. At his back, he knows his family must be terrified, and yet he also knows that they dare not look at the Divine Emperor, and that their heads must be bowed in prayer like everyone else in the chapel. 

A room with a hundred people, and it may as well just be Shen Yuan and his god.

The Divine Emperor’s lips quirk up. It isn’t a friendly expression. 

“Your god, little Shen Yuan?” He asks cruelly. “You can pity me, and you can know in your heart that you are incapable of serving me, and yet you claim to be devout to me in the same breath?”

“Aren’t I yours, Divine Emperor?” Shen Yuan asks. His voice does not waver, but it is a near thing. “If I didn’t belong to you, could I dare to live in this city? Every living thing here must live by your rule; naturally, we must all belong to you.”

“What pretty words,” Divine Emperor Luo says. His eyes glint red from beneath his lashes, and Shen Yuan thinks -

Ah, so red is truly the color of the divine. 

Divine Emperor Luo’s eyes are very suddenly the same deep brown that his murals all portray him with. Shen Yuan lowers his gaze deferentially, and wonders idly if all the other too-sharp pieces of the Divine Emperor would smooth out if Shen Yuan’s thoughts lingered on them. 

“If Divine Emperor Luo finds my words pretty, then I will dare to keep speaking,” Shen Yuan says, keeping his eyes turned down. 

“Go on, then. Speak.”

Shen Yuan takes a shuddering breath in. His family is still cowering behind him. The old lady who lives down the street is shaking in her pew across the aisle. 

And Shen Yuan has never considered himself especially religious, because believing in the gods is very different from placing your faith in them. 

“To spy is the manifestation of distrust,” Shen Yuan recites, the words long since memorized after a lifetime of growing up under the gods’ many rules about morality and punishment. “A lack of trust in others implies something impure within yourself. Spying should be punished with ten lashes.”

Shen Yuan’s mother lets out a quiet sound of alarm, stifled so quickly it sounds like a whimper. Shen Yuan does not bother to send her any sort of mental apology; it would not reach her, and would instead be intercepted by an outsider. 

Besides, Shen Yuan had known well what he was doing, quoting the rules that the Divine Emperor had written right back at him, implying that a god should be punished. It would be foolish to apologize for something he had done so purposefully. 

“Spying,” Divine Emperor Luo says, after the silence in the chapel has stretched long. “What a funny way to describe listening to the prayers of my followers. Is it spying for you to hear a call made to you from within your own house?”

“If all of the prayers that the Divine Emperor receives sound like what he heard from me,” Shen Yuan says, glancing back up to meet the god’s eyes defiantly. “Then I wonder why he hasn’t bothered to descend before today to scold us all.”

“Does little Shen Yuan think I will scold him?” Divine Emperor Luo asks, voice soft. 

“I think,” Shen Yuan says, “that a god normally so busy with punishing us would not bother to descend unless it was to fulfill those duties.”

“The world is good, from the work that I do,” Divine Emperor Luo says sharply. 

“Is it?” Shen Yuan asks, and he finds that his fear has been pushed down, his chest tight with a lifetime of reading about the gods and wondering why, if Luo Binghe’s life was so miserable, would he be unable to recognize misery in his own subjects, living every day in fear of him? 

Luo Binghe had been pitiful, and he’d never been allowed to grow up peacefully, and Shen Yuan truly thinks it sad that a divine being could live in such a tragic way. 

But that doesn’t make him blind to the way that Luo Binghe’s immaturity has scorched the mortal plane, nor does his pity completely dissolve his anger over such a thing. 

Shen Yuan’s fate had been sealed from the moment they the Divine Emperor had descended. If he’s going to be punished regardless, then it will be for having said his piece. 

Dying from bitching this pathetic god out is a far better story than dying from having only thought it. 

And yet, before Shen Yuan can open his mouth again -

The Divine Emperor turns suddenly, facing the cleric at the front of the chapel. The old man is clutching at his prayer book with shaking hands, and he ducks his head instantly when the god looks his way. 

“Take him in as a disciple,” Divine Emperor Luo commands, gesturing lazily in Shen Yuan’s direction. “I want him trained and moved to the main church by the end of the year.”

Shen Yuan looks at the cleric, and then back at the god in front of him. He - what?

The Divine Emperor glances back at Shen Yuan, his lips quirked up and his eyes once more a blazing red. 

“There’s another reason for a god to descend than to administer punishment,” he says. “We must also appoint clerics.”

And then Divine Emperor Luo is gone, the space where he once stood crackling with divine energy. 

In disbelief, Shen Yuan - the first cleric to be personally appointed by the Divine Emperor in nearly a century - falls to his knees. Fuck, he thinks, and he hopes that the god is still listening to hear it. 

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Trey Clover: Eyes Up Here

Wow, glasses off Trey? He’s still making the same one brow lifted smirk though 😂 HE KINDA LOOKS LIKE SEBEK WITHOUT THE GLASSES... I don’t know how to describe this artwork + this voice other than saying “Trey fans all want one thing and it’s disgusting”/j; he just seems to attract people that are really into the beefy dad types.

Trey’s Campwear jacket also had Painted on it. I wonder if that’s a brand in the Twst world? And his cardigan is the color of dentist scrubs—

Rise and Shine!

Mornings were a blur. Not that they went by fast, but they were literally a blur.

When Trey woke, his surroundings were smears of color. Slapped together indiscriminately, no clear form or boundaries between the hues. It’s not until he slipped his spectacles on that everything cleared up, sharpening into proper shapes and recognizable objects.

Running a hand through his short hair, he gave a yawn as he wandered into the washroom. The ceiling was curved and patterned like the sky. Paired with grass-like tiles and flowery sinks and lamps, the space created the illusion of stepping outside.

The washroom was shared among all of the dorm's residents. A few of them had been so bold as to leave their toiletries around: deodorant sticks, labelled bottles of shampoo and conditioner. But there was never any mistaking of Trey’s things for another’s.

He was the only one with an entire case to carry his dental hygiene routine. There was: a main toothbrush (changed to a new one every 3-4 months, or whenever he noticed significant bristle damage), several specialized toothbrushes (one for the back, one for scraping the tongue...), two spares, a selection of flavored toothpastes (fluoride added), and three containers of floss.

No mouthwash though--"It washes away too much," Trey would tell anyone who was willing to listen, "the bad bacteria and the good. All the saliva and mucous. We need those things to have a healthy, thriving oral microbiome."

“There are 810 rules by the Queen of Hearts,” the Heartslabyul students often joked, “and just as many steps in the vice dorm leader’s teeth cleaning routine.”

"Come on, guys. It's not that long," he'd say. "The dentist recommends two minutes, twice a day. I only take a little more than that to make sure I get in all the crevices..."

Trey counted the seconds as he ran his toothbrushes along his teeth, his gums, his hard palate, his tongue and under it. Five minutes, including flossing and rinsing.

See? Not that long. He’d have to tell his dorm mates when he could.

He held out a hand in front of his mouth and exhaled. A puff of air was trapped for just long enough for him to catch a whiff of minty freshness.

Alright.

Satisfied, he left with his bag and books.

Students peeled down Main Street, on their way to class. He was one of hundreds, living his ordinary life.

And he liked it that way.

Trey squinted. A circle in his vision was out of focus.

He removed his glasses to check for imperfections. And, sure enough, there was a bead of water in the middle of his lenses—likely a stray fleck from when he had been diligently cleaning his mouth. In a blink of that blurred world, he wiped the glasses up and placed them back on his nose.

Everything returned to full clarity.

“Good morning, Trey-senpai!” a voice called out to him.

He slowed his walk, allowing you to match his pace. His mouth cocked to one side as you pulled into view. “Morning.”

There’s a faint cloud hanging around him. Something sweet, yet also bright. Minty sugar, you think, leaning into it. Mmmmm.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Trey asked, and you laughed.

“That’s so dad of you to say.”

“Breakfast is an important meal of the day.” Trey adjusted his frames. A flash of white-his teeth. “So? Did you?”

“Wellllll…” You let your voice trail off.

The white had vanished behind his lips, but your gaze still lingered there. You knew you were staring, but you couldn’t tear yourself away.

“Hey now.” He tapped the rim of his glasses. “My eyes are up here.”

“Oh, sorry!” you startled, face warming. “It’s just… you have a really nice smile. It’s hard not to notice it.”

“Is that right?” He chuckled, easily laughing—not at you, never at you, but with you. “I’m flattered. Most people don’t seem to appreciate one.”

“No one in your dorm?”

“No. I’m pretty sure most of the guys in Heartslabyul think what I do’s a little excessive. Even Riddle doesn’t totally get it.”

“They must be jealous. The results speak for themselves.”

“That’s kind of you. Hey, you know what?" Trey leaned down, cupping a hand to his mouth. His voice was amplified in your ear.

Your heart leapt, thudding like the feet of a rabbit scampering down a dirt path. Your flesh was on fire, though Trey laid not a single finger on you.

"Y-Yes?!"

"I think you have a really nice smile too."

He smirked—and fireworks went off in your head. One, two, three. Colorful flowers blooming in the sky.

Your hands flew to your cheeks, as if that would somehow help to cool you off.

“Haha, are you embarrassed?” Trey’s eyes crinkled, as they always did, when he was amused. “I’m glad I got to see it up close and personal for myself. It was worth it.”

“M-My eyes are up here,” you managed to shoot back. Scathingly, you hoped.

His responding grin was crooked. For a second, you saw the him that hid behind humility, the not-so-kind Trey. His kind, toothy smile laced with a trace of poison.

“My bad. I see now I should’ve been nicer to you.”

“Was that a dad joke?!”

“Maybe. Who’s to know?”

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Pomegranate | Nikolai x F!reader

Chapter 1

After a series of misfortunes you've found yourself in debt to Arno, a human trafficker operating in London. You work at his club, dancing and escorting, only to find yourself deeper and deeper in debt. One night you arrive at Nikolai's. He's handsome, abrasive, gross, tender at times and he might be the most dangerous man you've ever met.

cw: cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, cockwarming, body inspection, piv, Nikolai is evil but also kind in his own weird way

Masterpost

"Clothes off... all of them," A thick Russian accent said from the intercom. You looked up at the camera in the corner. He must have seen you hesitate, "I already paid. Don't waste my money."

It never got easier. The degradation and humiliation of stripping for strange men, being used like a toy and forced to pack yourself back up into your box till next time.  It'd been almost a year now. As you dropped your coat to the floor your anger and shame hit the ceiling. You'd trusted your ex, he promised to help you when you lost your job, when you couldn't pay rent, when you needed to borrow money. You moved to London for better opportunities now you were in some stranger's house waiting to be used. You'd lost track of how deep in debt you were to him and his 'friends'. 10k? 20k? It made your stomach clench.

"Don't cry. You'll fuck up your makeup." is what those cunts back at the club would always say before you got in the car to a client's.

Marcus, your ex, now trafficker, hammered it in that this was a very important client. Probably another criminal. A rich one at that. His house was more of a warehouse. Large, stretching for almost an entire block. Nondescript from the outside beyond the vault like door and fancy keypad, one you were given a code to on the way there. 

"Turn around," he ordered when the last of your clothes hit the floor. Checking for a wire or weapons you guessed. Knowing you were being watched like this made your skin crawl but it was better than being groped immediately on entry.

The room you were locked in was more of a safe room with steel walls and thick doors. One leading outside and the other leading further inside. No windows, just the camera, an intercom panel and a white gift box that sat on the floor. 

"New clothes in the box. Put them on."

It was a too small lacy bra and matching too small panties. A washed baby blue, all mesh so you were fully exposed. There was a loud buzzer and the door unlocked.

Inside was nice. Made to look like a palace. Wood floors covered in large red patterned rugs. The walls had large paintings you recognized from an art history class years ago. You couldn’t tell if they were real or not. The details were obscured by the darkness. There was only one light on in the hallway, a door was opened down the way. It was a maw that beckoned you toward it. 

You stood at the threshold. The living room was equally extravagant. The walls were painted a wine red lacquer, almost mirror like. The ceiling had complex molding, painted the same color as the walls. The windows were all blacked out with heavy velvet curtains. It felt cold in this room. To the left was a large bar with more bottles than you'd ever seen in your life. To the right was a large couch and projector screen. Soviet era antiques were scattered about. It felt more like a palace than a home. A palace for some dark god, one that ruled pain and death. 

"You're prettier than the photo." You jumped at the voice. He was so quiet you didn't notice him on the couch. He was big, obviously tall but muscular with wide shoulders. He had a layer of fat that only worked to increase his intimidating stature. Dark hair slicked back with a widow's peak. Stubble covered the bottom part of an aged face. He wasn't old, older yes but whatever business he was in had aged him around the eyes. Dark eyes that hid any emotion from you.

He snapped his fingers and motioned for you to walk over. He had a cigar in the other hand. The smell filled the room. 

"Good. You follow instructions. More than I can say for the last one Arno sent me." He motioned for you to spin around again, giving your ass a light spank and laughing when you yelped. "You fuck anyone else today?"

"No," you shook your head. He blew cigar smoke at you, watching the silver bisect around your middle.

"Good. I'd hate to waste more time cleaning you out. They never do a good job at that." He put his cigar in the ashtray beside him. "On your knees."

"What's your name?" He asked, making space between his legs for you. You answered softly, a lie. Never give them anything was what another girl told you. Give anything and they’ll take until there’s nothing left. Even your bones could be used to pick teeth. He held your chin between two fingers, moving your head around like a doll. "Open your mouth."

He leaned forward, looking inside you. A thumb hooked over your bottom row of teeth. It tasted like tobacco and sweat. You'd learned to hold back gags long ago. 

"I don't like girls with rotten teeth." He ran a finger over your teeth, top and bottom, occasionally pressing on one.  He frowned, "Stop shaking. I'm not going to hurt you."

A lie, most likely. Men always said that before fucking you, like they could believe you were there willingly, like they didn't pick you out of a catalogue of girls. You clenched your fists in your lap and willed the fear out of your bones. Docile thing, something to be eaten to the core. You were always good. Arno controlled his girls with an iron hand. You’d heard the beatings other girls got when they disappointed. There were clients who had girls sent to them yet never returned them. Disappointing girls got sent there. Sacrifices to the gods of gold. Arno always wore gold.

"I like girls who like you." He pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pushed your jaw shut. "I paid to have you till morning. Make it worth it."

He leaned back with a sigh, grabbing a remote and turning on the projector. A hockey game flicked onto the screen, the noise from the stadium coming from speakers you never saw. 

"Is there...uh...anything you want me to call you?" Men liked all sorts of names. Daddy, Master, Sir. Rarely creative, often repeated. Some used their real name but not many, no one wants the risk of their whore becoming too mouthy. 

He looked down at you, like he already forgot you were there.

"Sir, when you answer my questions. Kolya, when I fuck you." He undid his belt and spread his legs wider. You knew your job. He picked up his cigar again as you undid the zipper on his pants.

He laid a hand on the back of your head, pressing down your hair. "Just keep me warm for now. Don't want to miss anything."

You took a deep breath before taking him into your mouth. He was thick and uncut. Intimidating even half hard. He didn't push as you worked your throat open, slowly bobbing your head. Sometimes men would ply you with liquor, help you to relax a bit more. You wish he had. The mix of salts from precum and skin filled your senses. A hesitant hand moved to rest on his thigh for leverage. He didn't shake you off. 

You glanced up at him when you took him to the hilt. Hoping for some sign of approval, not for your ego but the sake of your security. Men in pleasure were less likely to be agitated. 

"Good job, Kotenok." He rubbed his knuckles across your cheek, gold rings cooling your skin. He let you rest against his thigh, nose tickled by his dark pubes. Cigar smoke, the drone of the tv and the blood rushing around your head started to calm your nerves. Maybe tonight wouldn't be as awful as you thought.

He thrusted lazily during every commercial break. A hand holding your head steady against his thigh. He chuckled when you gagged. Everything was in Russian so you couldn't follow the game beyond his angry or excited, more so angry, ad libs.

He finally sighed and turned off the tv. He tapped your cheek softly.

"Kotenok, I need you to make me feel better about my team losing."

He made you walk ahead of him, directing you towards his bedroom. His dark eyes dug into your spine. A step below you and still a head taller. This is what a deer feels when the wolf stalks it. 

His bedroom was dark, a single lamp sat on the side table. The walls were a lime washed white. The bed was antique, made of carved dark wood. The sheets were white silk with a matching comforter. It was unmade. More paintings lined the walls haphazardly. When you were younger you used to cut pictures from magazines and tape them up to your own bedroom walls. He had seemingly done the same. 

You crawled onto the bed, swaying your hips as enticingly as you could manage. A hand wrapped around your ankle and pulled you back to the edge of the bed. You yelped as his hips hit your ass, cock bouncing against your cheeks.

"Remember  what I told you, Kotenok?" He pulled your panties down, calloused hands scraping against your thighs. "What to call me?"

"Kolya."

"Good girl." He dragged a hand down your back, knuckles bumping every ridge of your spine. You tried your best not to fidget under his touch, not to let the chill of the air or tickle of his fingers get to you. You heard clothing hit the floor behind you. You stared ahead, picking out one of the paintings to focus on. 

A young woman stared back at you, perched in a carriage and dressed in black, a feathered hat on her head. She looked upset, like you were unworthy of looking at her and you should avoid your gaze. 

Two fingers felt around your entrance. A shiver ran down your spine. You weren't wet enough, you knew that. You clung to the comforter, waiting for pain. 

"I told you to stop shaking. I said I wouldn't hurt you." He rubbed a hand across your ass. He sounded annoyed. You closed your eyes and pressed your face against the silk. It smelled clean and floral.

There was the snap of plastic and cold fingers prodding at your cunt.

"Shhh...I don't break the things I buy." He didn't admonish you for hiding your face as he scissored you open. He was almost tender, rubbing your hip with slow circles. His fingers curved to press against that soft spot inside you, pulling soft whines from you. "There we go, Kotenok."

You were pulled back again till your pelvis was hanging off the edge of the bed, toes curling around the plush of the rug. He ran the head of his cock between your folds, nudging at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, groaning loudly as you whimpered and fidgeted. Despite the preparation it was a stretch and burn. He held you down by your hips.

"Good girl," he purred with one last push. The head of his cock bumped against your cervix , causing you to clench in pain. It only spurred him to start thrusting. Your face dragged against the sheets as he rocked your entire body. His thrusts were hard and deep, like he wanted to mark the inside of you. 

"Close your eyes and let it happen. Most of them don't last long anyways," a girl said to you early on. You didn't remember her name or face anymore. 

You forced out moans every time his hips smacked against your ass. Arching your back so he could think he was pleasuring you. There was a modicum of pleasure, chasing it was too much effort, especially with unreceptive partners.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, hand dipping between your thighs. He pinched your clit till you cried out. His chin tucked against your shoulder, pushing his full weight against you. His body was hot and the thick hair on his chest scratched at your skin. 

"I don't like liars, Kotenok." He rubbed harsh circles till you moaned and shuddered. He hissed, "Cum on my cock or be quiet."

His other hand grabbed your shoulder and hauled you back up with him. Your back still pressed against his chest. Still rubbing your clit, he hooked an arm under yours and rested it between your breasts while holding your chin and forcing you to look upwards. There was a mirror on the ceiling. He smirked at you in the reflection. You dug your nails into your thighs, tears springing up in your eyes. It was horrific and erotic and disgusting and ugly and it made you wet. Some last threads of dignity snapping under the image of him fucking you. 

"Say my name," He panted.

"Kolya...please...Kolya."

"Want to come on my cock? Beg me for it." He licked your ear.

"Kolya please...please Kolya. I want to come. Please. Kolyaaaaa!"

You watched yourself as he forced you up to your peak, clenching around his cock. He laughed harshly and smacked your pussy. He held you up as your legs failed to support you any longer. You came hard, grabbing at his arms, manicured nails digging into his muscles. You would have thrashed about if he hadn’t had such a tight grip on you. 

He growled something in Russian before biting down on your shoulder. He filled you to the brim, his cock twitching inside your still clenching pussy. His cum was a familiar warm that leaked out around his cock and down your leg. He let go and you fell face forward against the bed.

"Catch your breath. I still want my money's worth." He patted the back of your thigh. You hiccuped softly as you regained sense. Limbs feeling heavy, your whole body stretched to its limit. 

You turned your head as he sat down a carafe of water and two glasses on the side table. 

“Need any?” He asked, filling his own glass. You nodded shyly. It was the first time you really saw him naked. He had a litany of tattoos across his chest and arms, too dark to make out details but you could see angels, skulls, cyrillic writing, a fighter jet, the virgin mary and a star on each of his knee caps. Near his groin was a pentagon with letters you couldn’t make out. A gold chain with an Orthodox cross hung around his neck. A layer of black body hair covered him, darkening everything even further. 

“Thank you.” You gulped down your glass, water dribbling down your chin. He wiped it away as he took your glass.

“On your hands and knees now,” He said, pushing back his hair. You faced the woman again, glaring back at her as you presented yourself to him. The mattress dipped behind you. He said something in Russian before pushing back inside you. 

You lost count of how many times he fucked you. You were pliant and submissive, following his lead as he bent you into whatever position he wanted. He was more virile than you expected. More gentle than you anticipated with a grossness you expected. The next time you asked for water he spit his glass into your mouth. He pinched and pulled but never bent you so hard you broke. Gagging, crying and cumming but never sobbing or screaming. 

You woke up sore. Dried cum and bite marks covering your body. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, watching you sleep. He was already showered and dressed in a silk robe. 

"You’ll shower before you leave. Scrub well." He slapped your ass before shutting the bathroom door and locking it from the outside. 

Another extravagant room. Oxblood tiles and heated floors. A large marble counter and a mirror taking up most of the wall behind it.

It was a large shower but more importantly the water was hot. Not warm but hot. You could have cum just from feeling the jets against your skin. The body wash was luxurious - sweet and woody. You scrubbed well. These kinds of men didn't want their DNA wandering all over the place. 

There was a towel left for you but no clothes and your lingerie from last night was missing as well. He did leave a cup of tea for you on the bedside table. There were painkillers too. You took it all in one scalding gulp. 

You kept the towel wrapped around yourself as you walked back downstairs. You found him through the one open door in the hall.  He was sitting at the dining table, typing on a laptop, cup of espresso cooling next to him. 

"Come here, Kotenok." He tugged your towel till it fell to the floor. He tapped the inside of your thigh till you spread them. "Don't start shaking again. Need to make sure you cleaned up well."

You bit your lip. He spread you open with two fingers, tilting his head as he inspected you. You yelped when he forced a dry finger inside you, moving it around and dragging it against your walls. He pulled it out and stared at his finger for a moment before sticking in his mouth. 

"Good girl." He nodded and got a money clip from his pocket. "I like you. I'll see you again in a week."

He handed you five hundred pounds. You stared at King Charles in disbelief. You'd been tipped before but never this much. You would have to hide it. You didn’t know where but you had to. If he kept tipping you like this it could make a dent in your debt to Marcus and Arno. 

"Thank you, sir."

"Did I ask you a question?" He didn't look away from his computer.

"No...umm...Thank you, Kolya." An offering of affection, appease the god and receive bountiful gifts. 

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. An actual smile. 

"If Arno takes that from you, tell me. That's your money. I paid him enough as is. Now go get dressed. Your car is here." He pointed back towards the front door.

You hurried off, afraid to go back to Marcus and Arno but also too scared of what Kolya would do if you delayed. 

Here is the rewritten part 1! Part 2 will go up in the next few days. If you have any questions, comments, thirst messages about this fic please send them. I love talking about Nikolai and his Kotenok.

[heart-ripping]

Behind Closed Doors.

pairing: Regina Mills (The Evil Queen) X Reader

summary: in the public eye, feared by all in her kingdom. the evil queen reveals a hidden side where she kneels before the woman who secretly controls her heart and an unexpected twist.

words: 3542 words, 20798 characters.

warnings(+18): queen!regina, maid!reader, ownership, abuse of power, submission, pet names, usage of magic, poisoning, praise kink(brief), degrading kink(slight), slight blood and violence.

this scenario came up in my head and i got distracted along the way but i just HAD to write this. hope u guys like this one!

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The grand hall of the throne room was a place of opulence and dread. Gilded columns lined the vast space, their surfaces etched with intricate designs of ancient conquests and mythical beasts. The high, arched ceiling was a tapestry of celestial scenes, painted in vivid hues that seemed to come alive in the flickering light of the grand chandeliers.

At the far end of this magnificent room, elevated on a dais of polished marble, sat the Evil Queen, the ruler whose beauty was matched only by her ruthlessness.

Regina's throne, carved from obsidian and adorned with precious gems, seemed to absorb the light around it, casting an ominous shadow over herself. She sat with cruel authority, her posture rigid, and her gaze piercing. Her eyes scanned the assembled knights and courtiers with a mix of disdain and indifference. She wore a gown of deep crimson, the color of freshly spilled blood, its fabric flowing around her like liquid fire. A crown of black diamonds rested on her brow, its sharp points catching the light in menacing glints.

The knights before her, clad in gleaming armor, shifted uneasily. Their leader, Sir Graham, stepped forward, his expression a mask of grim determination. He bowed low, the sound of his armor clanking echoing through the hall.

"Your Majesty," Graham began, his voice steady but edged with tension, "we have captured the rebels who dared to defy your rule. They await your judgment in the dungeons."

The Queen leaned forward slightly, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Bring them before me," she commanded, her voice a melodious contrast to the venom in her words. "Let us see these fools who thought they could challenge my reign."

As the doors to the throne room swung open, a group of ragged prisoners were dragged in by the guards. Their faces were smeared with dirt and blood, and their eyes were filled with a mix of defiance and fear. Regina's gaze swept over them, her smile widening as she saw their pitiful state.

"You dare to defy me?" she hissed, her voice rising. "You dare to incite rebellion against your queen?" She stood abruptly, the motion causing the knights to flinch. "I am the law in this kingdom. My word is absolute. Those who challenge me face only one fate."

She descended the steps of the dais with a predatory grace, her gown flowing behind her like a river of fire. She stopped before the nearest prisoner, a young man with a battered face and a defiant glare. Regina reached out and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

"Do you know what happens to traitors in my kingdom?" she asked softly, her voice dripping with malice.

The young man spat at her feet, his defiance unbroken. Regina's eyes blazed with fury. She raised her hand, and with a swift, brutal motion, backhanded him across the face. The sound of the impact echoed through the hall, and the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"Take him to the dungeons," she ordered the guards, her voice returning to its heartless tone. "Let him rot with the rest of the scum."

She turned her attention back to Graham and the other knights. "You will root out every last one of these rebels," she demanded. "I want no corner of my kingdom left unchecked. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the knights chorused, their voices trembling slightly.

Regina returned to her throne, her expression once again a mask of uncaring detachment. "Now go," she ordered. "And remember, failure is not an option."

As the knights hurried out of the throne room, Regina's gaze lingered on the empty doorway, a faint smile playing on her lips. She relished the fear she instilled in her subjects, the absolute power she wielded. Here, in the public eye, she was the embodiment of cruel, unyielding authority, a queen who demanded and gained respect through fear and intimidation.

The grand hallways of the castle, lined with ornate tapestries and dimly lit by flickering torches, felt eerily silent as soon as the night began to cast its dark veil. The Evil Queen, her presence imposing even in solitude, walked with measured steps, the sound of her heels echoing through the empty corridors. Her crimson gown, now slightly trailing with the fatigue of the day's harsh rulings, whispered to the shadows that danced along the walls.

As she reached her private chambers, the heavy oak doors creaked open to reveal a sanctuary of opulence and grandeur. The room was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight streaming through a large window, its beams reflecting off the polished surfaces of gilded furniture and priceless artifacts. Regina closed the doors behind her and sighed, a sound that was more a hiss of displeasure than a release of exhaustion. She moved to her grand canopy bed, its silken sheets cool and inviting. Sitting on the edge, she removed her crown, placing it on the bedside table with a clink of metal against the marble.

Collapsing onto the bed, she allowed herself a moment to breathe, to let the day's relentless performance of power slip away. Her eyes fluttered shut, but the reprieve was brief. A soft knock at the door interrupted her fleeting solace.

"Enter," she groaned frustratedly, her voice sharp despite the weariness that tugged at her.

The door opened hesitantly, revealing a young maid with wide, fearsome eyes. You stepped into the room, your hands trembling as you clutched a silver tray with a goblet of wine.

"I did not summon you," Regina expressed harshly, her eyes narrowing at you.

"I apologize, Your Majesty," you stammered, your voice trembling. "I assume you might enjoy some wine to help you unwind."

Regina's gaze remained unflattering, yet she made no move to dismiss you. "You presume much, entering my chambers without permission. Do not forget your place," she declared, her tone a mix of irritation and authority.

You bowed your head, your face reddening with humiliation. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," you whispered, stepping forward and placing the tray on a nearby table.

Regina's eyes flicked to the wine, then back to you, her expression inscrutable. "Leave it and go," she said curtly, dismissing you with a wave of her hand.

Regina's focus snapped back to the glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid swirling hypnotically in the dimly lit room. She raised the elegant crystal glass to her lips. The tantalizing aroma of the rich red wine filled the air around her. She took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring the complex flavors dancing on her palate.

However, just as the velvety liquid touched her tongue, an unusual sensation sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if something otherworldly surged through the wine, enveloping her senses in a swirling embrace. A rush of warmth spread from her mouth to the tips of her fingers, and at that moment, her eyes seemed to flash a deep, eerie shade of red.

Her heart quickened, and for an instant, the world around her seemed to blur and twist before the feeling vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving her bewildered and breathless.

You stood as you observed, before lowering your head and retreating towards the door. But just as your hand touched the handle, Regina's voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"Stop."

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. You spun slowly, your eyes broad with apprehension. Regina's attention was fixed on you as she slowly rose from her mattress, her eyes so unwavering and intense, a strange intensity burning in those dark-brown depths. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with an unspoken tension.

"Come here," Regina commanded softly, her voice laced with an undercurrent of something darker—something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You hesitated, your eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Then you took tentative steps forward, your hands still trembling. As you neared the bed, Regina extended a hand, gesturing for you to approach quickly.

"Closer," the queen murmured, her voice now a low purr. You obeyed, stopping just within arm's reach of the bed. Regina's eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail of your appearance.

"Do you know why I keep you?" Regina asked, her tone as cold as the winter's night outside.

You shook your head slightly, your eyes settled on the floor. "No, Your Majesty," you responded softly.

Regina tilted her head to the side, studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. With a bold, prideful motion, she lifted your chin. "I keep you because you amuse me. Because you are loyal. And because..." She paused, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Because you fear me."

Your breath fastened, your eyes darting up to meet her gaze. For a moment, something flickered in her stare—an emotion too fleeting to name.

"Pour me the wine," Regina commanded, her voice regaining its usual imperious edge.

With trembling hands, you picked up the goblet and the carafe, carefully pouring the deep red liquid. You held the goblet out to Regina, your head bowed low. Regina took it, your fingers brushing momentarily. The moment your fingers brushed against each other, a jolt of electricity shot through both of you, but neither of you dared to acknowledge it.

Regina brought the wine to her lips once more, her eyes never leaving you as she swallowed. The rich, dark liquid seemed to invigorate her, and her gaze grew more intense, more penetrating. She drank deeply, each sip refined and unhurriedly, the tension in the room palpable. You stood frozen, your heart thumping in your body, unable to look away from her piercing stare.

As Regina lowered the goblet, her eyes began to glow with an eerie, otherworldly red light. The transformation was subtle at first, a flicker of crimson that slowly intensified until her eyes blazed like embers. You inhaled sharply, taking an involuntary step back, but Regina's gaze held you in place, a silent command that rooted you to the spot.

Without breaking eye contact, Regina set the goblet aside. The room seemed to shrink around you both, the air thick with a tension that was almost tangible. The Evil Queen, the epitome of regal authority, began to move with a grace that was both conscious and assertive. She took a step forward, and then another, her eyes never wavering from you.

And then, in a move that defied all expectations, Regina began to kneel. Her knees touched the ground, her crimson gown pooling around her like a river of blood. Your breath was caught in your throat, and your eyes were wide with shock. You had never seen the queen show vulnerability, let alone kneel before anyone.

Regina's head bowed for a moment, her long, dark hair cascading around her shoulders like a silken veil. When she lifted her gaze, you were met with the full intensity of those glowing red eyes. They were filled with something unspoken—a mix of need and surrender that left your heart racing.

Regina's voice, when it came, was a low, husky whisper. "I am yours," she said, the words almost a plea. "Command me."

You stared down at Regina, your mind racing to make sense of the scene unfolding before you. The Evil Queen, who ruled with an iron fist and inspired fear in all who crossed her path, was now on her knees, submitting to you. It was a moment that shattered all perceptions, leaving you both terrified and exhilarated.

As Regina looked up at you, her red eyes blazing with a strange, fervent intensity, you felt a power shift you had never imagined possible. The night outside grew darker and more silent, as if the world itself were waiting to see what would happen next.

Your heart continued to pulse in your chest, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. You began to reach out a quivering hand, your fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. Regina closed her eyes at the touch, a shiver running through her.

"My Queen," you whispered, your voice a mix of awe and confusion.

"Command me," Regina repeated, her voice more insistent, her eyes fluttering to lock onto yours once again. The red glow seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, a visual manifestation of her inner turmoil and desire.

You took a deep breath, your fingers tracing a path down her cheek to her chin. You tilted Regina's head up, causing her to look directly into your eyes. The power you felt in that moment was intoxicating, a heady mix of exhilaration.

"Stand," you ordered gently, yet firmly.

For a moment, it seemed as if Regina might resist, but then she obeyed, rising gracefully to her feet. The red glow in her eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by a look of deep, unspoken emotion.

As the tension thickened in the chamber, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken electricity. The Evil Queen, her eyes still shining with a dim scarlet glow, watched you with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. Regina's own vulnerability—her unexpected submission—had left her on edge, her instincts warring with the unfamiliar sensations coursing through her veins.

But as your grin began to appear slowly across your lips, Regina's unease deepened. There was something unsettling about the way you looked at her—a gleam of triumph in your eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

"What is it?" Regina asked, her voice low and cautious.

Your grin enlarged, and your eyes sparkled with newfound confidence. "Oh, nothing, Your Majesty," you replied, your tone innocent yet tinged with something darker, something that set Regina's nerves on edge.

Before she could respond, you took a step forward, your movements intended and purposeful. Regina tensed, her instincts screaming at her to flee, to regain control of the situation before it spiraled out of her grasp. But something held her in place—a strange fascination with the woman standing before her, a fascination tinged with a growing sense of dread.

"What have you done?" Regina demanded, her voice betraying her rising panic.

Your smile dilated further, a flash of triumph in your eyes. "I simply offered you a drink, My Queen," you stated, your tone mocking with a hint of sarcasm. "A drink laced with a little something extra."

Regina's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing to comprehend the implications of your words. A spell. The wine had been enchanted with a spell, a trance designed to force submission and bend the will of its drinker to the caster's command. And she had drunk it willingly, having allowed herself to be ensnared by its insidious power.

The realization sent a surge of anger through Regina's veins, her fear giving way to a burning fury that threatened to consume her. She clenched her jaw, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

"You dare to manipulate me?" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

Your smile faltered slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your features. But then you straightened, your gaze defiant.

"You've ruled with fear and cruelty for too long, Your Majesty," you grimaced, your voice steady despite the tension crackling between you both. "It's time for a change."

Regina's mind raced, her thoughts a whirlwind of rage and betrayal. She had been outmaneuvered, outsmarted by a mere servant. The humiliation burned like acid, eating away at her pride and her power. But beneath the anger, beneath the fear, there was something else, something she couldn't quite name—a spark of admiration, perhaps, for the woman who had dared to challenge her, to defy her.

The room seemed to spin around you, the air heavy with the weight of your confrontation. Regina narrowed her gaze as she bore into yours, searching for any hint of weakness, any sign of vulnerability. But you stood tall and stubborn, your eyes blazing with a fierce determination that sent a thrill of something akin to admiration through Regina's veins.

And then, in a sudden, unpredictable twist of luck, Regina felt something shift within her. It was as if a dam had burst, releasing a flood of emotions she had long kept buried deep within her heart. Fear, anger, pride—all of it melted away, leaving only a strange sense of liberation in its wake.

Regina's eyes flashed, but this time—a glowing purple hue, reflecting the intensity of her emotions as she felt a familiar purple mist slowly enveloping her entire body before it disappeared like a mist of strings. Regina smirked in delightful satisfaction as she began to realize what was happening. The spell—the spell had worked, but not as you had planned. Instead of forcing Regina to submit, it had stripped away the layers of armor she had built around herself, revealing the powerful woman beneath.

A slow, rueful smile spread across her lips as she looked at you, her eyes alight with a newfound clarity. "Foolish girl, you thought you could control me," she snickered playfully, her voice soft yet filled with an undeniable strength. "But you underestimated me."

You flinched in disbelief, the ground suddenly feeling unsteady beneath you as doubt crept in for the first time since your intense altercation formed. "What are you saying?" you whispered, your voice barely audible above the beat of your heart.

Regina moved closer, taking a step forward to narrow the distance between you. "Let me make it clear for you," she towered over you, her voice low and husky, dripping with malicious intent, sending shivers down your spine as if darkness itself had taken form in her words. "You may have thought you had me at your mercy, but you were wrong."

And then, with a sudden, swift movement, Regina reached out and forcefully clutched your wrist, pulling you close until your bodies were inches apart. You breathe in, but before you can react, Regina leans in and smashes her lips against yours.

As your lips met in a searing kiss, a sudden rush of sensation swept through the both of you. Regina's heart throbbed in her chest, her senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. As she continued to manifest her dominance, Regina began to fiercely insert her tongue into your mouth, and a strange, tingling sensation began to spread through your lips as if something were coating your tongue with a thick, viscous liquid.

Regina pulled back abruptly, a sinister laugh could be heard from her lips as she looked down at you. The wine had transferred to your mouth during your kiss, carrying with it the control spell that had been intended for her.

You panted heavily, your pupils dilating in horror as the harsh reality dawned on you. You staggered back, your hand flying to your mouth as you tasted the bitter, metallic tang of the enchanted wine. Your heart raced with panic as you struggled to comprehend the implications of what had just occurred.

Regina's gaze hardened as she watched your reaction, a cold fury burning in her eyes. "Pathetic," she snickered, her voice dripping with disdain. "It seems the tables have turned."

You stumbled backwards, your mind spinning with fear and confusion. You had never intended for things to escalate like this, never anticipated that the spell would backfire in such a catastrophic manner. You had only wanted to level the playing field, to challenge the queen's power and authority. But now, as you felt the weight of the spell pressing down on you, you realized that you had made a grave mistake.

Regina's amusement grew as she advanced on you, her movements gradual and greedy. "Did you really think you could overpower me?" she teased, her voice a deadly whisper. "I'll show you what it means to be at someone else's mercy."

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as you felt her body cornering you against the wall with your heart throbbing painfully in your chest. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You were trapped, ensnared by your own arrogance and folly.

Regina's hand shot out and seized your jaw in a firm, unrelenting grip, causing you to tilt your head upwards to meet her gaze full of hatred and revenge.

"Don't hold it back," She ridicules, her voice low and taunting. "Let it come." Your eyes blinked rapidly and glazed with a mix of terror and the residual effects of the spell, locked onto Regina's, searching for any hint of mercy, of reprieve. But there was none to be found.

Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of your cheeks, her nails biting into your skin with enough force to leave marks. You winced, but the queen's grip only tightened further.

Regina's eyes never left you, her expression a twisted mask of conquering and ruthlessness. She reveled in your helplessness, in the way you whimpered beneath her touch. Regina began to lean toward your side, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice a seductive whisper.

"Good girl," she praised, her voice a hush, raspy whisper filled with dark satisfaction. "That's right. You belong to me." You closed your eyes, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you surrendered to The Evil Queen's will.

──────────

[monster-disaster]

[owlman] Mr. Harkins

owlman!Mr. Harkins x human!Reader Good to know: no smut, just a bit of a dom x sub thing, humiliation and spanking

Summary: The librarian has to punish you when you are late again.

"Miss Flores, you are late again," Mr. Harkins's stern voice welcomes you the moment you enter the library. A grimace pulls on your face as you find the male at his desk, not even looking up from the screen of the computer. The bright light follows the curve of his beak and reflects on his round glasses in front of his wide golden eyes. "I apologize, Mr. Harkins," you reply. Your voice is thin and quiet. "I didn't have time…" you start as you approach him. Your steps seem loud in the quiet room. "I don't have time for your excuses," he cuts in before you can continue your explanation. "If you can't follow the rules, you can go and buy the books instead of borrowing them." You don't even dare to reply as you grab the books from your bag and put them on the old wooden table in front of the owl. They are heavy and thick in your hands. "Did I make myself clear, Miss Flores?" Mr. Harkins asks, looking up at you from his seat. "Yes, Mr. Harkins," you nod, clearing your throat when you feel it tightening. "I will do better next time," you promise. He rolls his eyes. "I heard it before, Miss. I don't need your empty promises. I need you to bring back the books in time." "Yes, Mr. Harkins," you reply. "Now, go," he says, motioning to the long row of bookshelves behind you. "I don't want to see you." "Yes, Mr. Harkins," you repeat yourself, almost whispering.

Your friendship with the owl started well enough when you moved to the city two years ago. He was happy for the new face and welcomed you to Meriad with open wings and several suggestions about which books you should read when he heard about your preferences. He was respectful and kind. Then, your job began to be too demanding, and you started getting late with bringing back the books you borrowed. He was patient and understanding at first, but his demeanor changed for the worse every time you were late. Before you knew it, the male you thought was a new friend looked at you like you were his biggest enemy.

It was too late, though.

You were madly and deeply in love with him by the time, he started hating you.

That's why it hurts so much when you are late with his precious books. You hate to disappoint him. You want him to be kind and nice to you again, even though his anger and sternness always do things to you, no matter how much you try to deny it.

Wanting to get away from him as fast as possible, you quickly disappear behind the bookshelves. They tower over you easily, hiding you from his dark gaze and the burning of his attention on the back of your head.

You need long minutes to calm yourself down and start to focus on the books around you. 

The familiar scent of the old building and papers fills your nostrils as you wander through the long rows. Your fingers caress over the spine of the books as you read the titles.

The orange glow of the setting sun filters into the library through the tinted windows. They illuminate the tall walls and glint on the chandeliers hanging off the painted ceiling.

The library is quiet and calm. You can hear someone moving around from time to time, but you don't pay attention to them. You focus on the books, picking one or two up every now and again to get to know more before deciding to keep it or put it back. By the time you are done, your arms hurt under their weight.

"Great," you grunt under your breath, pushing down your anxiety because of the fact that you have to face the angry owl again.

Well, if you are lucky, his co-worker…

But no.

Mr. Harkins already stares at you with a scowl on his feather-covered face when you appear from behind the shelves. The golden of his eyes seems vivid and liquid in contrast with the whites and browns of his feathers. The yellowish color of his hands at the end of his wings matches with the shade of his beak. His black claws are short and blunt.

"No," he breaks the silence as you drop your collection on his table with a quiet thud.

Your brows lift in surprise. "What?"

"If you borrow so many books, you will be late again."

"I won't," you tell him, feeling like a child under his stern, scolding gaze.

"Don't lie to me, Miss Flores."

"The policy says one can't borrow more than ten books," you tell him. You shouldn't be brave enough to talk back, but him not letting you take as many books with you as you want almost feels humiliating. "It's only eight," you add, pointing at the pile between you and the angry bird.

"One last time," he grunts.

The few minutes while he takes care of the books and you put them away are silent, tense, and awkward. Shame and guilt burn your cheeks because of your argument. You are sure he has to force himself not to ban you from the library, and you are not sure what stops him.

"Thank you, Mr. Harkins," you break the silence, adjusting the straps of your bag on your shoulder as you make your way to the exit. "Have a good night."

"Miss Flores," he calls after you. "If you are late again, you will be punished."

Hearing his warning, your lips open with shock, but no words come out as the door closes behind you.

-

After you called the library for an extra two weeks and Mr. Harkins's co-worker was the one who answered the phone, you thought you were safe. Two weeks should be enough for a book that is barely longer than two hundred pages. In other circumstances, it would have been enough if not for your job. The hospital changed your shifts at the last minute, and after working long hours at night, you were too tired to read at daylight.

You should have returned the books two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

Mr. Harkins will ban you from the library; you are sure of it. You have two weeks to accept the fact that you will have to go to the other side of the city if you want to read without leaving a fortune in the bookshops.

But facing the owlman? Yeah, your stomach turns with anxiety when you think about it.

You sit at the table in your small kitchen. The books are in front of you in a pile as you stare at them accusingly as if your being in trouble is their fault.

What if you don't take them back? What is the worst that can happen? Maybe you have to pay some fine. And you can never go even near the library again, afraid you will meet Mr. Harkins. But with your luck, you will meet him somewhere else. And he will tear your head off in the middle of the street in front of everyone.

"Shit," you groan, holding your head in both of your hands as you lean onto the table with your elbows. You want to say more, but the ringing of your phone doesn't let you. The familiar sound fills the small flat.

"Yes?" You answer without looking at the screen. It's probably the hospital, anyway.

"Miss Flores?" You can feel your blood freezing in your veins at the sullen voice. "The books, Miss Flores."

"Yes," you gasp. "I will return them today."

"After the library is closed."

You frown. "What? Why?"

"Am I clear, Miss Flores?"

You gulp, fidgeting. "Yes, Mr. Harkins."

"Good," he grunts. "I will wait for you."

Okay. What is the worst that Mr. Harkins can do to you? Ban you? You already accepted the idea. Maybe he will make you clean up the library or help with the books. He can't do that, but you wouldn't be brave enough to say no if he asked.

You spend the whole day with rocks in your stomach. You try to calm yourself and be careless about it, but you can't lie to yourself. You are in trouble.

By the time the library closes, you are in front of the building, trying to gather your courage to make yourself enter.

The sun is already setting. The lights reflect on the buildings around you, gliding across the windows. The library's tinted glasses glint under the orange glow. The traffic behind you on the road is still busy and loud. The sound of honks and the rumble of engines echo off the tall walls, vibrating in the autumn breeze. You have to step and move every now and again so you are not in the way of anyone who has better things to do than stand in front of the library. You reach the entrance door like this, with quiet apologies and smiles.

When you finally enter, the library is even more silent than usual, and the desk not far from the entrance is empty.

This is your chance, you think with a sharp inhale. You put the books down, leave, and never come back.

"Miss Flores, you come." Mr. Harkins's voice mixes with the quiet thud of the books as they land on the hard surface of the desk.

Your heart stops beating for long seconds.

"Yes," you squeak out. "As you wanted, Mr. Harkins."

"See? You can be a good girl, Miss Flores if you want to."

You are sure he can hear the change in your breathing when he calls you a good girl. Anxiety and excitement rush over your body, going straight between your legs.

"I will go now," you tell him, still not having enough courage to turn and look at him. "I still have things to do and…"

"Not so fast, Miss Flores," he says, stopping you before you can move even an inch. "I still have to punish you."

At his words, you turn to him. "Mr. Harkins, I-"

"Turn back," he commands, and you can't help but scowl at him. He wears his usual three-piece suit. The brown shades of the fabric match his feathers. His round glasses rest on the base of his beak.

"Turn. Back," he repeats himself. "Before I make your punishment worse."

You do as he says.

"Take off your pants." His next demand makes you freeze and burn at the same time. Your cheeks heat up as you feel his waiting gaze on your back.

"Mr. Harkins-"

"Do I have to tell you everything twice, Miss Flores?"

"No, Mr. Harkins," you reply, unbuttoning your jeans to push them down to your knees.

"All the way," he says. "I want you to spread your legs."

Fuck.

Even though you feel humiliated, your pussy thinks otherwise. You are already wet and aching.

"What if someone sees?" You ask quietly.

"It's just us, little girl," he says. "You don't have to worry."

You nod, keeping your mouth shut. His gaze is heavy on the curve of your bottom even though you still wear your panties. You are curious if he can see the wet patch on the fabric or if you are not that soaked yet.

"Now bend over and spread your legs." He is getting closer.

Pushing away the books from the way, you follow his command once again. You want to know what happens next.

"Good girl," he hums, and your pussy throbs at his praise. Yeah, you want to be his good girl. You imagined the librarian so many times but never quite like this.

"Push out your ass," he says from above you. Your insides twitch at his closeness.

Fuck.

His hand lands on the small of your back. His touch is warm and slow as his hold slips down to your bottom. He grabs the flesh there, squeezing and groping you. His claws still feel sharp even though you know they are blunt.

"I will spank you," the owlman states.

His fingers slip under the waist of your panties, pulling down the fabric until it stretches around your knees. The library's air feels cold on your heated skin.

"How many days ago you should have brought back the books?" Mr. Harkins asks.

"Fourteen days ago," you squeak out. Your cheek is pressed against the wooden surface of the desk. Your hands are next to your head in small fists.

"Uh-uh," he disagrees. "Before that, you asked for two more weeks."

You gasp and almost stand up, but the owlman's other hand stops you from doing that. "That's too much," you tell him.

"It is," he agrees with a sigh. He sounds amused. "Let's stay at fourteen, but you have to count them loudly, and I will add one more every time I don't hear you."

"Yes, sir," you reply.

His chuckle is satisfied as he smooths down on your ass cheeks, warming up the skin for what happens next.

"Good girl," he says. "Now, count."

The first slap comes suddenly and powerfully. Your whole body jerks and jumps at the pain that strikes through your skin.

"One," you cry out.

Another slap. "Two."

Three more. "Three, four, five."

Your bottom burns under his assault. Your flesh jiggles after every loud smack that echoes off the walls.

"You don't know how many times I imagined you like this," he says.

"Six."

"Every time you were late, I wanted to bend you over the desk or my knees and spank that sweet ass of yours until they were red and ripe under my hand."

"Seven."

"At first, when you started coming here, I thought we could be friends, you know? He asks without wanting an answer.

"Eight."

"I thought you were a nice girl who respects the library's and my rules, but no."

"Nine." At this point, your ass is on fire.

"You had to be late every damn time."

"I'm sorry," you cry and gasp. "It wasn't my-"

Smack. Smack.

"Mr. Harkins!"

"You didn't count, bad girl. Add two more."

"No, wait!"

Smack. Smack. Smack.

"Ten. Eleven. Twelve."

Your face is wet from your tears, and your pussy pulses with need. Sobs shake your body as you cry. You hate to disappoint him. Guilt and pain eat you while he still keeps you down on the table. Smack. Smack. You count loudly and hoarsely.

"Two more, sweet girl," he says, caressing the redness of your skin. He is more gentle now, giving you a few seconds to take deep breaths and calm yourself down.

"Two more," he repeats, "and we will be done. Your punishment will be over, and you will be forgiven, alright?

"Yes, sir," you nod, still sobbing.

"Good girl."

Smack.

"Fifteen," you count.

"And one last."

"Sixteen," you gasp, relieved.

"Good girl," he praises you, caressing your burning skin. "I know you can be a good girl if you want to. I'm proud of you."

Every praising word and touch lifts something off your chest that lets you breathe again. The tears stop but your pussy still throbs and aches. The pain Mr. Harkins inflicted on you was nowhere near enough to lessen your desire for the owl.

"You want something else, aren't you?" He asks, amused again. "Your pretty cunt is sopping wet."

His hand glides down to your center. The tip of his finger is rough against the slit of your cunt.

"Mr. H-Harkins," you gasp, pushing yourself against him. "Please."

"Uh-uh," he hums, shaking his head even though you can't see him. His wide eyes shine with hunger and satisfaction. You are wet and slick under his touch. The scent of your arousal is thick and heavy in the air.

"I can't reward you after your punishment, can I?" He chuckles, still playing with your wet folds. The tip of his finger finds your clit every now and again but never stays there for long enough to make you feel good.

"Please," you breathe out, pressing your forehead against the desk. It's cold under your heated, slightly sweaty skin.

"How about this," he says, still exploring your pussy as he talks. "I let you choose three books now, and if you bring them back in time, I will give you a reward you want."

"Okay, sir," you answer. You know you can do nothing but agree.

"Good girl," he hums, leaving your pussy to lean down and take off your panties.

"Mr. Harkins?" You gasp sharply.

"I will keep them," he smirks. "Now go and choose three books, Miss Flores."

Your legs shake as you get up from the desk and make a few tentative steps to the shelves. The skin of your inner thighs is wet and uncomfortable.

Stopping in your tracks, you look back at the male over your shoulder. He is leaning against his desk with his wings over his chest. His golden eyes are sharp and satisfied as he looks over your half-naked body.

"Go on, little girl."

You feel humiliated and excited at the same time again as you wander between the shelves. His eyes are on you the whole time. 

You are not sure where this all will lead you with Mr. Harkins, but you know for a fact that you will return the books in time.

- Masterlist Meriad Masterlist Patreon

[ephie-om]

This is not proofread I finished it in ten minutes during my lunch break so if you see a typo no you don't

Day 23: The Demon Lord’s Castle

The royal castle sits high atop a hill, looking out over the kingdom. Its strategic position is unbeatable, and it exudes unquestionable presence. It has a long and storied history stretching out over millennia, such that books describing its original construction can only be found in the castle’s library itself. The castle has gone through many renovations, some from vanity, but mostly out of necessity.

The castle had an entire wing added to it in just three years when Diavolo’s mother took up permanent residence there. His father abjectly refused to let his lover live in anything but luxury, no matter how much she protested. He hired the Devildom’s best architects and engineers to create chambers fit for her, using only the best materials his realm had to offer. Her rooms came alive with rich greens and midnight blues, in contrast to the powerful red adorning the rest of the castle.

The chambers closest to hers were refurbished when she became pregnant. All sharp or heavy objects not tied down were strictly banned. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling was removed in favor of metal candle sconces.The walls were reinforced with steel girders and painted a soft pastel pink. A giant crib with a firm mattress sat in the center of the room, its frame colored a burnished gold. Every square inch of the young prince’s chambers was covered in layers of warding spells, along with his mother’s.

When she died, the only place that still had any trace of her were the prince’s rooms. Her own chambers were draped in black veils and sealed off from the rest of the castle. The king couldn’t stand to acknowledge any part of the wing, so the servants were ordered to avoid it. Years after, the young prince withstood a terrible scolding from his father after trying to venture in. He was fiercely punished and sent outside for hours, and when he came back, he saw the king had repainted his rooms in royal red.

Diavolo’s father knew the signs well. He had known for centuries that this would come. He was suddenly lethargic, and his mind was overcome with a thick fog at times. But he needed to be strong for his son. Strength was everything. So he built the underground chambers in secret, right under Diavolo’s nose. It was incredibly spartan, more like a tomb. No luxuries were needed, no royal symbols or golden decorations, only secrecy. Diavolo found out only five years before his father’s sleep. He had his suspicions, of course. It was hard to hide things from him; he was like his mother like that. Diavolo watched from a distance with a heavy burden of relief in his heart as his father settled his gleaming draconic form on a massive stone pedestal and closed his eyes.

Diavolo spent months making his way through his mother’s chambers. It was like they were frozen in time, left exactly the way they were the day he was born. Many of her things he kept for himself, tucked away in his room. Some of her possessions, like the paintings with his father, he sent away to be stored. It was hard enough ruling the Devildom without two more figures watching over him.

The castle’s grounds near the royal gardens were ripped apart by seven figures crashing into the earth. They had split the clouds with their fury, and Diavolo looked up to see a gaping wound of light seeping into the Devildom. Part of his father’s rooms were quickly converted into a makeshift hospital. In the panic, some of them tried to run, and Diavolo’s servants were ordered to use sleeping spells as liberally as needed. The walls shook with howls of pain and anger, The smallest of the seven had eyes that burned bright green and claws that tore through the flesh of anyone careless enough to get close, spattering the ground with blood.

Diavolo unveiled the freshly furnished room with a flourish. Lucifer’s eyes scanned over the plaque that read “Royal Academy of Diavolo Board and Council Meeting Room”, stifling a snort at the awkward wording. This would have to do until the academy proper was finished. The prince had spared no expense to further his dream, evidenced by the grand table that could seat nearly thirty demons at a time. The chairs were almost thronelike with plush red seats and high backs. The only distinction that the seat at the head of the table was Diavolo’s was the small royal crest embellished onto it.

The guest room closest to Diavolo’s rooms is now kept permanently reserved for the human exchange student just in case. The bathroom is stocked with all manner of human-safe shampoo, conditioner, body wash, lotion, makeup remover, anything they could need. The sheets on the bed and flowers in the vase are refreshed daily in preparation for a visit at any time. It's one of the only rooms in the castle that brings Diavolo joy to see, and he eagerly awaits the next time it's used.

[downtofragglerock]

More Makuta ocs

A Makuta who was given domain over an island that, due to a technical fault in that developed in the gsr, was perpetually plunged in night and darkness. She ruled the place as the "queen of night" and made many dangerous marine and terrestrial rahi that used heavy bioluminescence. The local ga-matoran took to using glow paint gathered from a species of bioluminescent worm rahi that situated themselves on the ceilings of partly submerged coastal caves as a personal identifier and frequented the island's many tide pools. She was felled in the Destiny War.

A Makuta who fancied herself an artist. She was ruled by passion, whether in brutal combat or in her pursuit of art. She ruled over a region called "the painted desert", known as such for the multi-colored sand and rock formations. She was one of the Brotherhood's most dangerous fighters and was felled in the Destiny War as well. Was one of the small minutiae of individuals in the Matoran Universe who experienced the then-highly obscure phenomenon of sexual attraction.

A spider-like Makuta who created a number of the Matoran Universe's arachnids, like the Fikou and Fikou-Nui. After the death of the Brotherhood's original oracle, she took their place in divining the future for the Makuta, spinning the "threads of fate" and seeing what they foretold. Even with her future sight, she couldn't escape the fate many of her kin fell to, and was harvested by Teridax.

[peppymintdreams]

Sakuverse Daycare: Isaac’s Birthday Party

The daycare buzzed with excitement from the moment the doors opened. Today wasn’t just any day—it was Isaac’s birthday. Blue and gold streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, and a large banner above the play area read:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ISAAC!

Stars dangled from the ceiling, and small paper orchids decorated each corner—Elias had insisted on the star theme, while Xanthus had carefully crafted the orchids out of pastel-colored paper.

“It’s perfect,” Elias had declared earlier, adjusting one last dangling star. “It’s like the cosmos and earth finally aligned for Isaac’s birthday!”

Xanthus, quietly arranging the last orchid, only nodded. “It’s... balanced,” he said softly.The air smelled of frosting and chocolate, and the children could hardly contain their excitement. A floral spring themed cake waited patiently on the table, a nod to Isaac’s love for all things nature.

Isaac arrived hand-in-hand with his mother, his wavy curls bouncing with each step. His eyes scanned the decorated room, taking in every detail with a thoughtful expression. Birthdays, to Isaac, were more like puzzles to solve than events to celebrate.

Near the book corner, Andrew waited quietly. Upon seeing Isaac, he stood and approached, holding a neatly wrapped package.

“Happy birthday,” Andrew said, his tone calm but warm as he handed over the gift.

Isaac’s eyes lit up. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know,” Andrew replied with a slight shrug. “But I did.”

He carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a leather-bound book on the history of law and justice. His fingers traced the embossed cover as his eyes widened with delight.

“Andrew! This is amazing!” He hugged the book to his chest. “Thank you.”

Andrew’s cheeks flushed pink. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Isaac! Finally!” Elias exclaimed. “We’ve been waiting forever!”

“You saw me yesterday, Elias,” Isaac pointed out with a small smile.

“Yeah, but today’s different!” Elias leaned in with a mischievous grin. “It’s your birthday! That means cake, games, and—” he whispered dramatically, “presents.”

Elias, bounding over from across the room, interrupted the moment with a grin. “Andrew’s got good taste! But just wait till you see my present!”

Isaac raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess… something about the stars?”

Elias smirked. “You know me too well.” He handed over a box wrapped in shiny silver paper.

Inside was a model of the solar system, each planet painted with intricate detail. “We can build it together later,” Elias said. “And then hang it in your room. It’ll be like you have the universe right above you.”

Isaac’s smile widened. “Thanks, Elias. It’s amazing.”

Luca, who had been quietly observing from behind Elias, stepped forward, clutching his stuffed Bunny. He held out a small card he had made himself, filled with colorful scribbles and a drawing of Isaac surrounded by tiny stars and flowers.

“Happy birthday, Isaac,” Luca said softly.

Isaac crouched down, accepting the card with a gentle smile. “Thank you, Luca. I love it.”

Luca’s eyes darted to the cake table adorned with tiny stars and planets. He whispered, “The cake looks… really nice.”

Isaac smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”

When all the children were gathered, the teacher clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone! Let’s start with Pin the Tail on the Donkey!”

Elias grabbed Luca’s hand. “Come on! We gotta win this.”

Luca blinked. “But… it’s not really a game you win.”

Elias grinned confidently. “Winning is a mindset.”

Isaac, Andrew, and Xanthus watched from the sidelines.

“Elias takes everything seriously,” Andrew observed.

“It’s why he never gets bored,” Isaac replied, adjusting the book under his arm.

Xanthus, ever the quiet observer, spoke softly. “Games show you who people really are. Some follow the rules. Some don’t. Some just watch.”

Isaac tilted his head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Xanthus’ dark eyes were thoughtful. “Games reveal the parts of people they usually hide.”

Andrew blinked. “You make it sound so… philosophical.”

Xanthus shrugged. “Everything is.”

Elias, now blindfolded, spun in circles before stumbling toward the donkey poster. He stuck the tail confidently… on the donkey’s ear.

“Hey!” Elias yanked off the blindfold. “I was so close!”

Luca giggled softly. “It’s okay, Elias. You did great.”

“Great?” Elias groaned, then puffed out his chest. “I wanted to be legendary.”

Isaac approached, patting Elias on the back. “You’ll have better luck with the next game.”

The next activity was a scavenger hunt. Teams were quickly formed: Isaac naturally paired with Andrew, while Elias insisted on taking Luca under his wing. Xanthus drifted between the groups, helping when necessary but mostly observing.

Isaac led his team with quiet precision, finding each hidden item effortlessly.

“Found the last one!” Isaac announced triumphantly, holding up a star-shaped trinket.

Andrew nodded in approval. “You’re good at this.”

“It’s like solving a puzzle,” Isaac replied, his eyes shining. “And I love puzzles.”

Finally, it was time for the highlight of the day: the birthday cake.

The children gathered around as the teacher lit the candles.

“Make a wish, Isaac,” she said warmly.

Isaac stared at the flickering flames, deep in thought.

“What are you gonna wish for?” Elias whispered eagerly.

Isaac closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew out the candles.

“What did you wish for?” Andrew asked softly.

Isaac opened his eyes, a thoughtful smile playing on his lips. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

Elias groaned. “That’s just a myth!”

Isaac’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe. But some myths are worth believing.”

Isaac a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Some wishes are better kept secret. Like... some connections.”

Andrew’s eyes met his, a silent understanding passing between them.

Elias and Luca exchanged a glance, their unspoken joke about the two growing more certain.

“Maybe,” Elias whispered to Luca, “they don’t need to say it. Sometimes, the stars just align.”

Luca nodded, holding Bunny close. “Yeah. Like a story that’s already written.”

After cake, the children played until it was time to go home. As parents began arriving, Xanthus approached Isaac.

“Did you have a good birthday?” Xanthus asked quietly.

Isaac nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for being here.”

Xanthus gave a rare, almost imperceptible smile. “Sometimes, the best days are the ones where you don’t have to wish for anything. Because you already have it.”

Isaac blinked, absorbing the words. “You’re really wise, Xanthus.”

“Or just observant,” Xanthus replied.

the sun dipped lower in the sky, Isaac stood by the window, watching the fading light. It had been a perfect day—not because of the games or the presents, but because of the friends who had shared it with him. Isaac’s mother arrived, her warm smile matching the gentle glow of the evening. Isaac, still clutching his new book, turned to his friends one last time.

"Ready to go, birthday boy?" she asked softly, brushing a curl from his forehead.

Isaac nodded, glancing back at Andrew, Elias, Luca, and Xanthus. “See you tomorrow,” he said with a small wave.

Elias grinned. “Tomorrow’s another adventure!”

Andrew offered a quiet nod, Luca waved shyly, and Xanthus simply observed with his usual calm.

As Isaac took his mother’s hand and walked toward the door, he looked back one last time, his heart full. Today had been more than just a birthday—it had been a day of friendship, fun, and a quiet reminder that sometimes, the best gifts are the ones you never have to wish for.

P.S. Hey… hey, you! 🫵🏾 Do you want more Sakuverse gay shit? Hit that follow button and send in a request! You’ll get notifications whenever I post new fics or incorrect quotes or head canons and maybe even a chance to have your OC featured in a story.

[blueiscoool]

Mummies with Golden Tongues Found in 2,500-Year-Old Egyptian Tomb

More than a dozen ancient gold tongues have been discovered in a cemetery at the site of Oxyrhynchus in Egypt.

Archaeologists in Egypt have discovered 13 ancient mummies with gold tongues and nails in a cemetery at the site of Oxyrhynchus.

The team made the finds when they dug down to the bottom of a burial shaft, revealing a hall with three chambers that held dozens of mummies. The human remains date to the Ptolemaic period (circa 304 to 30 B.C.), a time when a dynasty descended from one of Alexander the Great's generals ruled Egypt, according to two statements released by the Egyptian Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities.

Archaeologists had previously unearthed 16 gold tongues at Oxyrhynchus. The ancient Egyptians put gold tongues in mummies with the intention of helping the deceased speak in the afterlife, and because they believed that gold was "the flesh of the gods," Esther Pons Mellado and Maite Mascort, co-directors of the Spanish-Egyptian archaeological mission at Oxyrhynchus, said earlier this year. The same team made the new finds.

"The number of gold tongues here is high, which is interesting," Salima Ikram, an Egyptology professor at the American University in Cairo who was not involved with the latest excavation, said in an email. "Possibly the bodies belong to higher elites that were associated with the temple and animal cults that proliferated in the area," Ikram said, noting it's possible that gold tongues "might have been the vogue for the embalming house in the area."

During the latest dig, the archaeologists also found 29 amulets with the mummies. Some amulets are in the shape of scarab beetles, as the ancient Egyptians associated scarabs with the movement of the sun across the sky. Other amulets are in the shape of Egyptian deities, including Horus, Thoth and Isis. Some of them have forms that combine multiple deities together.

The excavation also revealed wall paintings, including one that depicts a tomb owner named "Wen-Nefer," who is shown being accompanied by several Egyptian deities. Another painting on the ceiling depicts the sky goddess Nut surrounded by the stars. There is also a painting of a boat that has multiple deities depicted on it.

"As for the paintings, the quality is really excellent and the freshness of colors is simply amazing," Francesco Tiradritti, an Egyptologist at D'Annunzio University of Chieti-Pescara in Italy who was not involved in the dig, said in an email.

By Owen Jarus.

[neonthewrite]

The Office Fae

The next prompt was Tangled, and I ended up with a brand new character for this one. He's fun so far. I'm enjoying his very gremlin energy. I hope you all like him too!

~~~

Life in an office building generally worked well for Simon, despite technically being a house fae. The rules could be fuzzy on that front, with so many humans coming and going every day. Sure, there wasn’t a singular family loving the place and cherishing their lives there, but a lot of humans from many families liked the building and their jobs there well enough to make the energy inviting. Something about flexible hours, good wages, and a solid benefits package made for a harmonious office with plenty of memories–some friendly, some dramatic, even some spicy memories.

Plus there was a vending machine. Simon came for the vibes originally, but he absolutely stayed for the vending machine. At a modest five and three quarter inches tall, he had easy access to a good variety of things in portions that lasted him days.

Another house fae rule he bent–it wasn’t precisely a bowl of cream left out for him specifically, but nobody could expect that these days. Keeping the vending machine stocked was close enough, and if the light bulbs and printer cartridges in the building all lasted longer than they should, well, Simon earned his keep. He probably saved them hundreds on the annual operations budget.

Work always slowed down around the end of winter, aside from some buzzing over in the accounting office. All the holiday parties were done and the potluck food all taken home from the break room fridges. Simon planned for it and handled it well, though things could get cold with the shorter hours and heat on less to make up for the emptier office.

To that end, Simon wintered in the ceiling of the server room. The servers, bulkier and taller than a human, stood clustered in a side room and were never turned off. Blinking lights of green and red and blue twinkled on each machine, colors filtering into the ceiling along with the ample warmth those hulking obelisks gave off.

With so much downtime, he found himself perched near an opening in the ceiling, a spot where the tile had broken off long ago, and watched the server lights flicker on the tangled mess of multicolored cables that ran between them. It was a game of his to trace each cable from end to end with his eyes, idly kicking his bare, grey-skinned feet (his skin had shifted to a tasteful, cool grey a few years ago after an office refresh had updated all the paint). Long, slender fingers absently braided silky hair the color of faded ballpoint ink while he scanned the cables with eyes reminiscent of the shocking, dreaded blue of a computer on its way out.

Most house fae took on colors in equal parts camouflage and defense. Simon would be tough to spot if he happened to be out in the open near a human, but if someone did see him, humans never liked seeing that blue. So his eyes would probably protect him.

Not that he ever intended to test that. As much as he liked his many many humans and their water cooler chatter, Simon was realistic. They wouldn’t like him much even if he shared their scale. All his features were a bit elongated, just enough to seem strange and other. He only wore flowing pants made of scrap fabric and he ate bugs sometimes. Humans would call him scary or freaky or any number of words they had for things they didn’t like, and if his eyes couldn’t scare them off he’d be in danger of a rolled up magazine or a dusty phone book.

He’d stayed hidden for a long time, and he anticipated many games of look-at-cables in his future, all without humans being a bother.

Of course, until they were a slight bother anyway. Simon paused his movements and tensed when the door opened abruptly. Light flooded in and he lost track of the cable he was tracing when he looked over, grateful for his higher vantage point and the human tendency to ignore background details.

Two figures stood there, one familiar and one not. One was Tom, a human whose limbs gangled a bit but whose middle had padded out after so many years in a desk job. His bald spot glowed with light from the hallway, and his rumpled t-shirt sported a band name Simon thought he recognized. From what Simon knew, Tom was every bit an IT master and a vital cog in keeping the office running smoothly. He didn’t have to dress any higher than casual.

The other human was a new face. A woman, probably younger than Tom by a couple decades. Her dark skin contrasted with his pale complexion. Her hair, coily and thick, grew longer atop her head though it was tapered close at the sides. She wore a smart blouse and slacks, which Simon immediately recognized as the sort of thing one wore to a job interview, or one’s first day at work.

Tom waved a hand at the servers whirring away in the room. “Servers in here. Probably not gonna need to be in here a ton, but y’know. If something needs a reset…”

The woman nodded and smiled faintly as she scanned the room. “What are the chances I can fix up some of those cables?”

She said it as a joke. Simon didn’t find it funny at all. Tom did. He laughed. “Now that I get someone to pass tasks like that along to, I imagine I can convince the bossman to let me schedule a maintenance day. Now, let’s get you some of your equipment…”

The door closed and the humans walked away, and Simon cared not at all for their conversation or the rest of the onboarding for this new IT interloper. She wanted to organize the cables, which simply would not do. Simon stalked back to his makeshift camp to get his pack.

This new hire was simply not a good fit, and he’d do what he could to stop her horrible plan.

[jointhearumanati]

🌏 HETALIA RUSSIA HEADCANNONS 🌏

🇷🇺 Ivan got extensive therapy once Nations were required to go to therapy with therapists who specialize in Nation Psychology and has improved drastically he even went on an apology tour if he unnerves anyone now it's all in jest

🇷🇺🇨🇳 Ivan and Yao's relationship has improved drastically after therapy they are now best friends and just maybe something more

🇷🇺 Ivan is really into Chokers the scarf was too stuffy when there are meetings in hot climate countries and he needs something to cover his neck scars so when he found out Chokers existed with a variety of designs he was ecstatic he quickly bought as many as he could with designs he liked even gets gifted chokers for birthdays and Christmas his favorite is a sunflower pattern with a sunflower charm he plays with the charm during world meetings

🇷🇺 Ivan owns a large greenhouse in his backyard where he grows sunflowers and other flowers his hobby is to collect seeds from other countries he make sure they aren't going to damage his other plants first

🇷🇺🇨🇳 Yao introduced Ivan to baked Sunflower seeds and sunflower tea it's his favorite afternoon snack now a bowl of seeds and sunflower tea

🇷🇺🇨🇳 Ivan has had a crush on Yao since they first met during Mongolian rule he was the only person besides his sisters who was kind to him he thought he was an angel

🇷🇺 Ivan is a impressive Dancer in both ballet and traditional Russian dances

🇷🇺 Ivan is a impressive oil painter he always paints his sisters, other nations mostly Yao, and landscapes with sunflowers even the walls of his room are a sunflower field he has a painting studio in a room in his house his paintings are hung all over his house

🇷🇺 Ivan's favorite color is yellow like the Sun and warmth the walls in his house are either soft yellow or sky blue his furniture is either Green or brown though his ceiling is a pastel purple with cloud designs and has wooden floors

🇷🇺🇬🇧 Ivan likes to Knit it helps him with stress he's made sweaters for all the nations he knows he even bonded with Arthur with their mutual love for knitting and trade patterns and helpful tips his favorite place to knit is by the fire in his chair with a blanket in his lap

🇷🇺 Ivan has a Sunflower 🌻 tattoo over his heart with ink splashes of sky blue seemingly bleeding from the flower

🇷🇺 Ivan likes to collect different designs of Slippers and pajamas

[petrichorium]

it’s a whisper that rushes through the guards as they lead you through the twisting corridors of the castle’s dark, claustrophobic escape routes—a frantic, hushed whisper, full of incredulous tones and wild-eyed glances at her majesty whose side you never leave, whose hand you never let go of.

gojo satoru, it hisses, and it makes your blood run cold.

the leader wears a blindfold, they say—to cover up his eyes, that distinctive blue, marking the gojo family lineage and last seen on the former crown prince, only child of a king who passed of a fever mere months before his son’s assassination. or so the whisper says, by the dim light of the torches, bouncing off the low ceilings of the corridors, spilling from the mouths of the very people sworn to protect you until their last breath.

your queen is aging, greying at the temples, wrinkling at the eyes; her hearing has been going for years yet the name rings for her clearly enough that her manicured fingers tighten their grip on yours. it surely would, for it belongs to her long-deceased nephew—not by blood, no, she has married into the family, princess of a neighboring kingdom.

your memory conjures up boyish laughter, long fingers tugging on your hair, striking blue eyes soft with first love. you dare not measure it against the terrifying description painted for you of their commander—brutal, enormous, swift, cutting down swathes of men with ease. inhuman, say the whispers, a beast, a monster.

the sounds of battle echo through the claustrophobic tunnels—the clanging of metal, the dying cries of men. behind you, two of your companions weep, clutching onto each other and barely keeping pace. this corridor will open up near the entrance to another, in your favorite library, and from there will be the final stretch beyond the walls. steeds await, one for each courtier and most of the guards. you will escape to the east, the queen’s homeland, where her family is sure to take you in.

you do not get that far.

there are men waiting beyond the bookshelf. too many; they swarm around you like wolves to a downed doe, so dense and armed, push past into the corridors to surround you. and their leader stands at their front—towering over even the tallest of men and holding himself high, blood streaking his tunic and his silver hair, eyes covered with a black cloth.

a war god sent to punish, to consume, to destroy, say the whispers—the ones in the back of your head. the guards are silent.

the queen lets go of your hand for the first time since the captain of the guard had stormed into her room and told you all to flee. she orders her men to stand down; outnumbered as they are, it will be little more than a bloodbath. regally, she approaches, head held high, much to the amusement of the brute before her—his mouth stretches wide and he lifts a wicked sword, arm so long that he needn’t even step forward for the point to press beneath her chin.

“hello, auntie,” he says, grin flashing teeth sharp as the blade he points at your queen. “i hope you didn’t plan to run off before my coronation. we wouldn’t want to miss the festivities, now, would we?”

and you still want to disbelieve, yet with his free hand he reaches up, hooks his thumb beneath the cloth, and reveals a single brilliant blue eye—a gojo eye, the color of the sky and the sea, sign of the gods’ blessing, the physical marker of one born to rule. cold as steel and directed not at the queen but at you, stealing the breath from your lungs with the manic light within.

“not when everything i’ve wanted for so long is finally in reach.”

usurper!gojo masterlist

[usafphantom2]

Thunder in the Heavens: A Brief History of the Aircraft of the USAF Thunderbirds

Entertaining crowds since 1953, the United States Air Force Thunderbirds are one of the world’s best known aerial demonstrations teams, dazzling spectators in their familiar red, white, and blue aircraft.

Darrick Leiker

Thunderbirds aircraft history

Thunderbird Beginnings

Officially activated on Jun. 1, 1953 as the 3600th Air Demonstration Team, the United States Air Force (USAF) Thunderbirds are the third oldest air demonstration team in the world. First located at Luke Air Force Base (AFB) in Arizona, the team moved to its current home of Nellis AFB in Nevada in 1956. During the first six air shows, the team was known as the “Stardusters”, taking the name of “Thunderbirds” after influence a of Native American bird-like spirit creature resembling a hawk or eagle that could cast thunder from its wings and lightning from its eyes while ruling the skies. The first demonstration aircraft used by the team would be a straight-wing jet of which versions had seen action in the skies over Korea.

Entertaining crowds since 1953, the United States Air Force Thunderbirds are one of the world’s best known aerial demonstrations teams, dazzling spectators in their familiar red, white, and blue aircraft.Thunderbird BeginningsF-84G ThunderjetF-84F ThunderstreakF-100C/D Super SabreF-105B ThunderchiefF-4E Phantom IIT-38 TalonF-16A/C Fighting FalconSupport Aircraft

F-84G Thunderjet

The Republic F-85G was the first aircraft flown in a demonstration role by the USAF Thunderbirds. It made its first appearance on Jul. 1, 1953 at Nellis AFB in Nevada, with the first public appearance on Jul. 23.

Republic’s F-85G was a straight-wing single-seat jet powered fighter, entering service in 1951. Out of a total of 3,025 built, 789 went to the USAF, with the balance going to U.S. allies in order to quickly build up forces opposing Communism. The G model was nuclear capable, had aerial refueling capabilities, and was the final straight-wing variant of the F-84.

Powered by an Allison J35-A-29 turbojet, it could reach speeds of over 620 mph and had a service ceiling over 40,000 ft. The Thunderjet was 38 ft long with a wingspan of 36 ft 6 in, while the height was 12 ft 7 in. The F-84G served the Thunderbirds until the spring of 1955.

Since the F-84G was a single-seat aircraft, the Thunderbirds also operated a Lockheed T-33 Shooting Star two-seat trainer aircraft, used as for flights for VIPs as well as members of the press, and was flown by the team’s narrator. The T-33 served into the 1960’s in this role, painted in Thunderbird colors.

F-84G wearing the markings of the Thunderbirds. (Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons)

F-84F Thunderstreak

In the spring of 1955 the Thunderbirds transitioned to the F-84F Thunderstreak, a swept-wing and swept-tail version of the F-84G they had previously flown. The F-84F would serve the team until June 1956.

Republic had been working on a swept-wing version of the F-84 since 1949, however delays in production as well as continued runs of the straight-wing version G models as a stop-gap measure, prevented the F-84F from coming into production until November 1952, and not going operational until May 12, 1954. The swept-wing design, along with a new engine, the Wright J65-W1, did improve performance over the F-84G. Almost half of the production of 2,711 aircraft went to NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) forces.

The fuselage of the F-84F was lengthened to over 43 ft to allow for the new engine, the wingspan was 33 ft 7.75 in and the height was 14 ft 4.75 in. The maximum speed increased to 695 mph, and the ceiling was 46,000 ft.

Swept-wing F-84Fs of the Thunderbirds during a demonstration. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

F-100C/D Super Sabre

In conjunction with the move to Nellis AFB, Nevada, the Thunderbirds also changed aircraft in 1956 to the North American F-100C Super Sabre. The F-100 was the first United States Air Force fighter to fly supersonic in level flight. The Thunderbirds were the first aerobatic team in the world to utilize a supersonic aircraft.

The debut of the F-100 was on Armed Forces Day at Nellis AFB on May 19, 1956. Supersonic low altitude passes were the highlight of demonstration, only to be banned by the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) after a few shows. The F-100C would also be the first aircraft to be painted with the familiar Thunderbird silhouette on the underside of the aircraft body. F-100 would fly with the team for 13 years.

North American’s Super Sabre flew in Vietnam, used as a primary close air support missions. A total of 476 F-100C models were produced. The aircraft was 47 ft long with a 38 ft wingspan and height of 16 ft. Maximum speed was over 900 mph and the ceiling was 50,000 ft. Power was provided by a Pratt & Whitney J57-P-21 afterburning jet engine.

The F-100D differed from the F-100C with increased wing and tail surface areas, in-flight refueling capability, and improved avionics. The D model would fly with the Thunderbirds through the 1968 season. The F-100D was intended as a dedicated fighter-bomber.

The North American F-100D Super Sabre at the Museum of the United States Air Force near Dayton, Ohio. This particular aircraft flew with the Thunderbirds from 1964 to 1968. (Image credit: United States Air Force)

F-105B Thunderchief

For six shows in early 1964, the Thunderbirds flew the Republic F-105 Thunderchief. The Thunderchief was the first and only Thunderbird aircraft to dispense both red and blue smoke during demonstrations. The F-105B had a short-lived tour with team, after the fuselage of one of the aircraft broke in half on May 9, 1964 at Hamilton AFB, California. The aircraft exploded. The accident prompted the team to return to the F-100, this time the D model.

The F-105B was a large aircraft with a length of over 63 ft and a wingspan of 34 ft 11 in. Height was 18 ft 8 in and the aircraft could reach speeds of over Mach 2.

An F-105 of the USAF Thunderbirds. (Image credit: United States Air Force)

F-4E Phantom II

With President Richard Nixon on hand on Jul. 4, 1969, the Thunderbirds introduced their new demonstration aircraft in Colorado Springs, CO, the McDonnell Douglas F-4E Phantom II. For the first time the base color of the aircraft was now white instead of the previous bare metal/aluminum. The event was broadcast live as a means of raising the spirits of the American people, with the country involved in the Vietnam War.

The F-4 was a two-seat aircraft; the radio, navigation, and other equipment was removed from the rear seat and moved to the front. The Thunderbirds performed 518 demonstrations in the Phantom, including the smallest public crowd ever in Alaska of only 30 people.

The F-4 was also being flown by the U.S. Navy Blue Angels, and this would be the only time in history both teams operated the same aircraft at the same time. The F-4 flew with the Thunderbirds into 1973, when, like the Blue Angels, the oil crisis forced the team to look for a more economical aircraft. The F-4 last flew with the Thunderbirds in a show on Nov. 10, 1973.

McDonnell Douglas’ F-4E was a large and thirsty aircraft, having twin-engines, a length of 63 ft with a wingspan over 38 ft, and weighing in at over 61,700 lb fully loaded. Two General Electric J79-GE-17A afterburning turbojet engines insured the aircraft could reach Mach 2.27. The Phantom had a ceiling of 54,400 ft.

Thunderbirds McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom II number 7 at the Pima Air and Space Museum in Tucson, AZ. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

T-38 Talon

Northrup’s T-38 Talon two-seat trainer aircraft was chosen as the economical aircraft to replace the F-4 Phantom by the Thunderbirds in 1974. The T-38 was the first supersonic trainer in the world and five of them could operate using less fuel than one F-4. The T-38 flew only 35 shows in 1974. In 1976, the Bicentennial logo was applied to the tails of the T-38 in celebration of the 200th year of the American Revolution.

The T-38 was not a front-line fighter aircraft, and it had no aerial refueling capabilities, preventing overseas shows. It would be the T-38 the Thunderbirds were flying in 1982 when they suffered a training accident with four pilots being killed on Jan. 18. Demonstrations and operations are paused for 14 months following the accident and it would not be until April of 1983 the team would take to the skies again performing demonstrations.

The T-38 was only 46 ft 4.5 in in length, had a 25 ft 3 in wingspan with a height of 12 ft 10.5 in. Gross weight was 11,820 lb and it was powered by two General Electric J85-5A afterburning jet engines, giving it a maximum speed of Mach 1.3.

Northrop T-38 wearing Thunderbird colors and the Bicentennial logo on the tail. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

F-16A/C Fighting Falcon

Early in 1983, the Thunderbirds returned to flying front-line fighters during demonstrations, the General Dynamics F-16A Fighting Falcon. Flying the F-16, the Thunderbirds made the first American military flight demonstration in Beijing, China, in 1987. It was also the first such demonstration in a Communist country. The F-16A model was flown by the team until 1992, when they converted to F-16C models. In 1990 during the Gulf War, the team suspended demonstrations.

The F-16A is the single-seat variant, while the B model is the two-seat version. The F-16A has a maximum speed of over 1,300 mph, with a length of 49 ft 4 in and height of 16 ft 5 in. Wingspan is 32 ft 10 in. Widely exported and license-built throughout the world, the F-16 has been operational since January 1979.

The F-16C/D models entered production in 1984, began flying with the Thunderbirds in 1992, and they remain the team’s demonstration aircraft today. They feature upgrades in avionics, radar, and all-weather capabilities. During demonstrations the team operates six single-seat F-16C and two F-16D two-seat models, still based at Nellis AFB, Nevada.

The Thunderbirds performing in their familiar F-16s. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

Support Aircraft

In 1955 the Thunderbirds received a C-119 Flying Boxcar painted in team colors as a support aircraft. The C-119 was a transport aircraft built by Fairchild powered by tow radial engines capable carrying 27,550 lb of cargo.

1956 brought the team a C-123D Provider transport plane for support, again painted in Thunderbird colors. The Provider was also manufactured by Fairchild and capable of transporting the team’s ground crews and equipment. The C-123D crashed on Oct. 9, 1958, killing 19 members of the support staff.

During the 1961 season, the Thunderbirds began operating a Douglas C-54D Skymaster as a support aircraft. The large four-engine aircraft was painted in Thunderbirds colors and named “The City of Las Vegas”. The C-54 is a military transport version of the DC-4 passenger aircraft, and it was used as part of the demonstration during air shows.

The Thunderbirds in more recent years and currently utilize contemporary transport aircraft such as the C-17, wearing conventional USAF colors and markings.

The emblem of the United States Air Force Thunderbirds. In 1985 the demonstration team was consolidated with the 30th Bombardment Squadron by the Air Force Historical Research Agency. The 30th Bombardment Squadron dates back to 1917. (Image credit: Wikimedia Commons)

@TheAviationist .com