#dandelion abstract painting

[depth-n-facade]

H.E.I.S.T. Research Facility Notes #1:

On the evening of August 15, we seized 4 artifacts within the borders of Kantan, Poti Potaria. The names of the works are Pumpkin 01101101 01100001 01110011 01110011 01100001 01100011 01110010 01100101, Autumn, Sky and Lilanderon. One of the works reminded us of the flower we commissioned for research. The strangest thing is that we also found the details of the “Pumpkin Incident”. The Pumpkin Incident has happened in August 10th at 04:00 am. The same date as the assimilation of that date's victim. However the artwork looks old and outdated. So we have to scan it for the further information. As for Autumn and Sky, these works of art are actually intertwined with each other. Those places look similar as well but unfortunately they might have been outdated as well. They'll be scanned for further information. Thank you and good night.

-H.E.I.S.T.

(Headquarters of Explores, Investigate, Surveillance and Trials) '' H.E.I.S.T is a centrist investigative company that provides evidence of corruption in the Land of Potii Potaria, Founded by Borg Heist in 1972. Heist ruled in a conservative party named NES Party (New Expedient Socialites) but resigned in 1970 following a scandal involving the Liberal party called JF (Justice Fighters). NES and JF were feuding since 1968 to 1970 and some members of both sides had affiliation with the aliens. This resulted the citizens being abducted and it left both the parties with no votes during the election of 1970. After resigning from his party, Heist founded the company to prevent similar situations from happening again. Unfortunately the current conservative party has deep connections with the aliens and it has become a massive issue in Potii Potaria. H.E.I.S.T. is currently reporting the issue that the current government forbids. Some of the researchers have been arrested for reporting it and the remaining ones are demanding justice for their coworkers who were wrongfully arrested and blacklisted by the government. ''

[n3vermlnd]

dandelion by nevermind

[hollyannpinderart]

Dandelion Bee🌼🐝

[lucygallery-90sworksonpaper]

DANDELION  Resin, dandelions, dishcloth fabric on paper (1995)

[comfortless]

in my pottery class thinking abt how much i would rather be painting with König rn pleading emoji btw

lele you are in my head always.. König being artsy..? awkward, spontaneous infatuation developing over sharing portraits of each other? yes yes… 💞

There’s a new man in your class that you have never seen before, not around the rest of the community center. The perplexing titan has chosen to take up painting, of all things, and you wonder as he steps through the threshold of the door how he will ever even be able to hold a brush without the wood splintering in those massive hands.

Painting is calming, gentle most of the time. Only, he embodies that feeling of a failed brush stroke, an accidental tilt of your wrist leaving a swirl of mottled colors that would take far longer to fix than it could ever be worth. Dark, dreary and tense as he seats himself directly next to you.

His creations are dark things, abstract shapes of gray and maroon; red lightning and murky sea. Each dip of pigment glistening off of your own brush leads to softer scenes; poppies and silhouettes of sweet creatures grazing and basking beneath the amber rays of a sun hanging lofty upon the canvas. Gentle things to warm a heart where as his own are to expel something from a chest wound, infected and bursting.

He takes note of your bewildered stares, two weeks after his joining, and even makes a point to place himself at the back of the room, far enough away to keep you from seeing the quivering of his wrist as he paints a new apocalypse. A mercy or an insult, you couldn’t be certain.

When the time comes to create a portrait of one of the other participants, you approach him without thought. “We can paint each other,” you offer, voice like a bowstring. He only nods, once, and allows you into the space adjacent to him as he shifts his long limbs beneath the table in an attempt to accommodate you.

Just mercy, it was, then.

König isn’t talkative, even as you pester over details and ask him to tilt his head a certain way just to ensure you’ve picked the perfect placement for one of the rogue freckles dotting his cheek. He complies with a wide-eyes stare, one that leaves you feeling a strange mixture of curious and uncomfortable. Each time you look up, you notice that the gaze hasn’t lessened, it only proves to be more incessant and intense.

You show him his portrait; attention drawn to the eyes, each fleck of fluorescent light painted in them with the same color used for the pale white of his scars. This is one to be proud of, a certain reverence to the piece that you’ve lacked entirely in your painted fields of little white and gray blotted sheep.

His version of you is a splash of dandelion yellow, flecks of pink in a sea of black. There’s no face to be seen, but it is beautiful in its simplicity. You marvel at it, holding the canvas up to the light and your eye catches on something— buried just below the still-drying paint, a small scrawling of your name in the shimmering gray of pencil lead. You almost think you can make out the shape of a small heart somewhere in that mess of cheap acrylic, too, before the piece is gently tugged from your hands.

“It needs to dry,” he tells you, casually discarding it back onto the wooden table and examining your depiction of himself instead.

You watch as his eyes seem to light up, that weariness within them suddenly gone as his stare drifts from top to bottom of your canvas. You know that you’ve done well, with a certainty when his focus shifts back to you and a barely-there smile is tugging at his lips.

He tells you that he can not paint anything like you, and when you ask him just what that means, he only tells you that you’re just too pretty. The reality is obvious— his hands shake, but only around you. You’ve seen him nodding along to something the instructor says to him as the older man leans over the table to inspect his art, and König has only seemed stiff, unbothered.

There’s a cup of chamomile tea prepared for him the next time he enters the room and you’re nothing but demure smiles and sweet greetings as König takes the space next to you once more.

It’s just as he’s taking a sip that you decide to innocently ask: “Have you ever painted anyone nude?”

He sputters for a moment, trying to conceal the rising tide of crimson that creeps up from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he turns away from you.

“Nein, but I would like to try.”

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 1

As a professional artist, you've made a career out of bringing works of art to life. The colors of Zaun are no exception, and your current commission is literally larger-than-life: a mural in the Undercity. But then you meet a young revolutionary named Silco who shows you a side of the underground that you've never seen before...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst || SFW | WC: 3k

beta readers: @silcoitus @deny-the-issue

ao3 || Masterlist

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There’s color everywhere in the Undercity. It’s not that hard to find, but most people don’t care to go looking for it. But you’ve always been able to appreciate it in all its forms: dandelions straining through cracks in the concrete, eclectic graffiti in hard-to-reach places, pale weak lighting streaming through broken glass and ironwork…

Anywhere you look, there’s always a feast for the eyes.

There are plenty of artists from the Undercity, and you proudly count yourself among their number. But not many of them manage to cultivate a steady clientele; fewer still manage to attract the attention of wealthy Topsiders. They’ve sustained you for years now, since the beginning of your professional career. Making the transition from tagging crumbling stone walls with graffiti to painting on smooth, delicate canvas was a huge learning curve, but you make great money from commissions. And there’s a seemingly never-ending supply of wealthy Piltover families who want family portraits, individual portraits, pet portraits, portraits of long dead ancestors, portraits of them participating in historical events that they weren’t present at…

Whatever opinions you have of your clients, you keep them to yourself. They probably have their own issues with you since you were born and raised in the Undercity. But you wouldn’t give up your upbringing for anything. Certainly not the hallowed halls of Piltover’s art schools, learning to paint only in the styles of long-dead “masters” who romanticize poverty as an abstract concept, something to be studied and observed at a distance. 

Today, your work brings you to the periphery of the Undercity, where Piltover’s largest bridge ends at the aboveground levels of Zaun. You’re working on your biggest commission yet, literally: a mural high on the side of a whitewashed gray brick building in the Promenade, the emergent layer of the Undercity’s glass and iron jungle. Still close enough to the surface to be touched by the sun, illuminated in the early hours on days with good weather. Your artwork is going to encompass at least two-thirds of the wall, over a hundred times larger than most other wall art in this area of Zaun.

The location has you nostalgic for those bygone days of your childhood, but the fresh air and warm sun are miles above where you used to run around in the lowly gutters, competing with your friends for the best real estate and vandalizing each other’s work, showing off who can paint the fastest and most elaborate pieces before Enforcers come stomping around. That’s when you’d all scatter like rats, only to do it all over again the next day.

The mural you’re working on is large enough to warrant the use of a scissor lift, which you’re standing on right now. Its highest extension brings you standing higher than the wall, level with the roof’s ledge. When you lean back and stretch as far as you can, a cool breeze trails through your fingers. You can’t help but savor the beautiful day for a little while longer before getting started.

Just as you lean over a yellow paint can to open it, the sound of running footsteps makes you pause. You lean over the scissor lift’s railing to look down at the alleyway below. It’s narrow due to the close proximity of other buildings, pipes and glass tubes rising above rooftops and wrapping around windows like fungi. You squint hard, trying to make out the source of the noise.

It moves so fast you almost miss it. A blur runs over the irregular stonework on the ground, coalescing into a shadowy figure that dodges and jumps around the landscape with ease, darting and almost flying on a deliberate path. Maybe it’s an avian Vastayan? 

This area doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic around this time of day; you deliberately chose your working hours so you wouldn’t be disturbed. Still, it’s not unusual to see or hear people nearby. But what really gets your attention is when the thing ducks around your scissor lift and peeks out, using your machine as cover to look back where it came from.

You don’t know why you’re watching, but something compels you to. Compels you to defy the first law of survival in the Undercity: mind your own damn business. Or else.

For a moment, it doesn’t move.

Then, it looks up. Catching you staring at it.

No, not “it”—a man. Human, dark-haired with brilliant blue eyes, staring back at you in defiance and uncertainty.

He turns and goes down to his knees, crawling to a nearby manhole cover and lifting it, then jumping in. His movements are swift and graceful, no doubt thoroughly practiced at using this specific escape route. 

Footsteps fill the air again. You turn away to look down the other end of the alleyway where the man came from. These footfalls are slower and louder; whoever they belong to, they’re wearing heavy boots and don’t seem to care about being subtle.

A pair of Enforcers turn the corner, navigating the debris and unsteady ground much more clumsily than the stranger.

“He can’t have gone far! Damn gutter rat…” one of them swears angrily. 

They’re about to pass right next to your scissor lift. 

You hold your breath as you grab two of your paint cans at random and pry their lids off as quickly as you can…

Perch them carefully on the railing…

Take aim…

And then—

SPLAT!!!

Your aim is perfect: the cans drop like bombs, crashing into the Enforcers’ shoulders and clanking onto the ground, spinning wild arcs of paint all over their boots. They’re both drenched in paint from head to toe, prim and proper gold and blue outfits stained in long drips of light pink and pure white, bright enough to be seen even from the great height you’re standing at. Just as you hoped, they stop their pursuit to shake themselves like mangy dogs, trying to swipe the paint off of their sleeves. One of them takes off their hat and whips it frantically up and down, splattering the nearby walls and your scissor lift.

You school your face from a triumphant grin into a serious, mournful expression as you lower the lift to the ground. The loud hum of the machinery drowns out their furious cursing.

“I’m soooooo sorry officers, I didn’t see you there!” you apologize profusely as you climb down to approach them. 

“Dammit, woman!” one of them shouts, brandishing a paint-splattered baton at you. “What the hell—”

“If you want to be reimbursed for your uniforms, just let Councilor Salo know and he’ll cover the costs,” you smoothly interrupt the Enforcer, unbothered by his outburst.

The namedrop makes them pause. You pull your business card and a golden engraved crest out of your pocket. One of the officers takes them both, not bothering to look at your card. Instead, he carefully examines the crest, a pure gold and tacky letter “S” in calligraphic script, set in a delicate filigree of a leafy bush laden with berries. The crest is given by the Councilor to his contractors to give them free entry to restricted areas in Piltover. You’ve only ever used it so far to gain access to his gated mansion, but right now it’s coming in handy too: having Salo as a patron basically tells people that they shouldn’t mess with you unless they want to piss off a councilor.

“It’s genuine,” the Enforcer mutters to his partner and hands the crest back to you. He clears his throat and addresses you in a calmer, more formal manner. “And it’s not a problem, ma’am. We won’t bother the Councilor with something so trivial. Have you seen a—”

You gasp melodramatically, exaggeratedly widening your eyes. “Your uniforms! You need to wash them right away! Or else they’ll stain permanently!”

They glance at each other impatiently. “It’s fine. We’re looking for a—”

“And your skin! Did you get any on you?? It’ll stain you too!!”

That gets their attention. One of them tucks his hat under his arm, rubbing a gloved hand furiously at his pink-and-white cheek. You shove the other Enforcer with all your might, pushing him away.

“Scrub your bodies with tomato juice and then soak in onion peels! That’ll get it all out! But hurry!!”

They finally break out into a run, out of Zaun and towards Piltover where they belong. You snicker to yourself and toss the crest in the air. It flips over and over, casting bright reflections that spin dizzily on the walls as it catches the light. Those Enforcers won’t actually have to do all that to get the paint out of their clothing, but it feels like a small victory against the cruel arm of law enforcement who cause even worse trouble whenever they visit the Undercity.

You catch a glimpse of something twinkling on the ground. It’s the eyes of the man, still watching you from underground. 

As you suppress the instinct to wave hello at him, he pulls the manhole cover back into place, disappearing into the sewers.

The next day starts off like any other, and you’re looking forward to getting more work done. But as you climb your scissor lift, a jolt of fear zaps up your spine. Prickles on the back of your neck crawl upwards to settle at the top of your head. It’s an Undercity instinct, a warning that someone you can’t see is watching you.

And they’re looking down at you like a bird of prey.

You dart into the shadows, crouching low against the wall. You take deep breaths to settle your nerves. The high ground gives them an advantage against you. If they have a gun, it’s just a matter of them pointing and shooting—

But then, just barely, you’re able to catch a whiff of smoke. It smells of cheap nicotine, and you look up to see a ring of cigarette smoke uncurling lazily against the backdrop of a cloudless sky.

The cigarette smoke is as good as a signal fire. If they wanted to hurt you, they wouldn’t make themselves known like that. Still, whoever it is, they know where you work and were waiting for you. That makes you wary enough to grab your sharpest palette knife and hide it in your pocket. It’s not a conventional weapon, but there’s no way you’re going to confront a stranger unarmed when you ask them to leave you alone. Your grip around the knife’s handle is tight as you punch the button to extend the lift to its fullest height. It brings you level with the roof and the person waiting for you.

It’s the same man from yesterday, now close enough for you to notice that his narrowed, suspicious eyes aren’t blue but turquoise, clear as the ocean and just as deep. He’s pointy and whip-thin, leaning against the roof’s ledge with crossed arms, a cigarette squeezed between the clenched fingers of a tight fist.

“What kind of person works for a councilor but won’t turn in a wanted man?” he asks, curious. His voice is low and smoky, a smooth baritone intonation rolling over gravel. It’s a beautiful voice, tempting you into lowering your guard. If you closed your eyes, you could be fooled into believing that his voice belonged to a Topside radio host or a curator giving tours in a museum. 

“Just wanted to help a fellow ‘gutter rat’,” you reply, shrugging. 

“And why would you do that?” His fashion is typical for an average Zaunite: his dark shirt is made of rough and well-worn fabric, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal wiry but muscled forearms. On his left shoulder is a leather pad, studded with brass buttons and stitched with metal wires, all highly polished and shining brightly in the sun, reflections dancing off them like flares. His left wrist is wrapped in bandages while a leather bracelet threaded with silver coins adorns his right wrist. 

“Why not?” you ask. “Isn’t life hard enough already? We should help each other out whenever we can.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your statement with a reply, but instead raises an incredulous eyebrow. You let the silence continue as the two of you mutually size each other up. His high cheekbones and long, narrow and shapely nose are framed by straight hair, black as coal. It looks so soft, parting in the exact middle of his forehead to end in drapes around his chin. His skin is pale with an ashy undertone, a symptom of living long-term in the deepest guts of the Undercity where its denizens rarely get to enjoy any sunshine at all. His lips are thin, the irregular cupid’s bow longer on his right side than the left.

This man’s face would be an interesting challenge to paint. 

“Now that’s not an attitude you encounter every day in the Undercity,” he muses. His eyes are especially striking. They gaze at you with such intensity, it makes you self-conscious of your paint-stained attire, a loose workman’s jumpsuit that prioritizes utility and comfort over style. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to your painting materials, which you’re suddenly realizing are lying out in the open… He could get a good price for them if he stole them from you. Yesterday’s prank was a spur-of-the-moment decision; losing some easily replaceable supplies was worth inconveniencing the officers, but you suddenly regret painting a target on your back. 

That’s why you have to keep to yourself in the Undercity. If you help a stranger, they could stab you in the back instead of thanking you. 

But the man seems more interested in staring through you, scrutinizing you with such focus that it could put yesterday’s Enforcers to shame. 

“Well, it’s fun to mess with Enforcers, too,” you chuckle at the memory. Staring back with casual indifference, you quietly readjust your grip on your knife. Another rule of survival in the Undercity is to never break eye contact with someone trying to intimidate you unless you want to be seen as weak. If he wants to start a fight, you’ll be ready to finish it. 

“That, I understand all too well.” The stiff line of his lips quirks upward in appreciation before settling again into wary neutrality. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away to take a pull on his cigarette. You let out a low breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant, lazy movement of his hand as he puts out his cigarette, grinding it against the ledge. The wind carries away small brown flecks of ash in a sudden breeze. 

His demeanor is stony, but not hostile. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking just from looking at his face. But he went out of his way to come here and find you, and that says a lot about his determination overriding his sense of caution. You didn’t get a good enough look at him yesterday to track him down, either to turn him in or demand a reward. He could have just as easily carried on with his own life on a path that never crossed yours again. 

He must be really curious about you. 

You don’t know why, but the feeling is mutual.

“You’re welcome for yesterday, by the way,” you smile at him, relaxing your hold on your knife. “Those Enforcers would’ve caught you if it weren’t for me. Although you’re so skinny you could literally slip through their fingers.”

His impressive façade cracks as he bares his chipped teeth, bristling and ready to attack. “I did not need your help. I was perfectly capable of escaping on my own.”

You thoughtfully stroke your chin. “Guess we’ll never know.”

He stands tall to his fullest height, towering over you, a dangerous challenge in his voice sharpening its edges into a threat. “What makes you think it would be a good idea to antagonize someone wanted by Enforcers?”

“Ooooh, the Enforcers want to lock up little ol’ you. You’re such a big baddie,” you tease. “If they had it their way, they’d have every single one of us locked up. You’re not special.”

He leans forward again, curling his hands over the ledge of the roof. “Perhaps I’ve done something especially terrible to warrant particular attention from Topside.”

“Let me guess,” you purse your lips as you examine him. “You pickpocketed some rich guy?”

He smiles slyly. “Worse than that.”

“Running an illegal Poro-fighting ring?”

“No.”

“Impersonating a councilor?”

“Not quite.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “What was it?”

“Seducing a Piltie noblewoman,” a mischievous twinkle shines in his eyes. “I all but rescued her from a cold and loveless marriage. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t seem to feel the same way.”

“Really?” you laugh again, more out of surprise than humor this time.

“No,” he winks. “I guess you’ll never know.”  

“If I bump into those Enforcers again I’ll just ask them— not that I’d tell them where you are,” you add hastily. It was meant as a joke, but from the way he glares at you with humorless alarm it was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Besides, if you did seduce a Piltie lady, you’d be doing her a favor.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

You blush. It was something you thought when you first laid eyes on him properly, but it just slipped out while you were babbling— he’s handsome. “You’re probably better looking than her husband.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” his smile this time is accompanied by a soft exhale of amusement. He leans forward again, this time a slight slouch in his shoulders as he allows himself to relax. “I also owe you my gratitude for coming to my rescue. Thank you, madam.”

You wince at the word. He doesn’t look that much older than you, so there’s no need for him to address you so formally. “Please don’t call me that.”

“May I have your name then?” he asks politely.

You give it to him. He repeats it slowly, as if appreciating the shape of it. Something about the way he says it makes you want to step forward. The opportunity presents itself when he reaches his hand out for you to shake.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Silco.”

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If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

Chapter 2

[hangesdarling]

art class au with my faves pt. 1

FANDOM. aot PAIRING. Hange Zoë x reader CONTENT. just a lot of fluff and my desire to be loved A/N. i'm drained and this close 🤏 to relapsing so have these headcanons bc i'm love-deprived

Hange

this baby is a science nerd and probably likes academic art but that's not what they are there for

they are that one approachable classmate who will peer over your shoulder and tell you your drawing is so good

they are leaning more to academic side more than artistic so their artworks is either average or needs improvement

they always manage to sit beside you in class

at first, you thought they just need art tips or have someone more knowledgeable about art they could ask critique from

but everyday you see them more as a comforting presence who was always there to admire you and your abilities in a way that warms your insides

they're helpful and always happy to share things with you

it was barely a month when you realized you started looking for them in crowded hallways, or the cafeteria, or looking forward to some other classes you share with them

the mention of their name suddenly makes your heart leap

you found yourself giggling to their nerdy jokes, or finding a special beauty in their loose, more impressionist (borderline abstract) artworks

once, you stayed behind class to admire the paintings lined on the long table

you spent longer staring at Hange's work

looking at it seems to lure you in the image, their use of vibrant colors somehow matched perfectly to create an inviting atmosphere

it has distinct qualities, like their identity was written all over each stroke of the brush

it's captivating. it is not a hollow art only composed to be beautiful, it has a purpose. a soul.

"am I improving?" you jumped as Hange's voice resonated from behind you. you faintly registered their footsteps or the door opening.

the surprise made your heart jump. but it continued to thump widely as you looked back at them, brushing off the growing heat on your face and your racing heart as you responded, "yeah, surprisingly well."

"just well, huh?" they chuckled

your banter continued on even as you went outside the room and just when you have to part ways did you notice that you're still smiling

the flowers and trees on your way home seemed brighter and more lively in your eyes

the sunset was a soft dandelion on the pavement as your shadow danced with it

a certain warmth crept inside your heart and for the first time in a long time, you started to look forward to tomorrow, to the days when your heart will continue loving them

you didn't even care if it will hurt someday

the thrill of affection burned brightly as the days grew along with your love

and your heart seemed to burst when they held your hand and mapped the stars for you

their hand was growing warm and shaky, and their first whispers of I love you didn't quite reach your ears

Hange has always been good with words, with commanding their emotions

but their heart was bursting and having you in their arms is the only thing that will calm them

and so they held you, swift and tight in their arms. you want to hold their trembling hands and calm their racing heart pressed against your chest. your hand gently ran across their back, easing them and yourself in the process

Hange began talking, words spilling fast out of their mouth and you only understood i love you and i want to be with you and i'm sorry

their voice only hushed when you said I love you back, it was so quiet you thought they wouldn't hear

but they've always been good in hearing your voice despite its softness, can always distinguish where you are even in a crowded bustling room

and their love made you want to crumble

in a world full of art, color, and beauty, you've always felt like a piece in the sidelines, hidden behind a canvas, a soft fullness against all these colors

and yet Hange saw you.

in every art, in every love song, in every color that passed their eyes, your name crosses their mind, you and your blushing face

ever since you so patiently taught them the basics of art, Hange modeled their perception of beauty after you

it's always been you

they are hardworking, always staying up late with you with paint on both of your hands

it was enough.

everything was in a hue of warm pinks and oranges just from knowing that their love is ever present

they always try to make a portrait of you in every style they found interesting

they even manage to surprise you with how well versed they are becoming with art developments

Hange wasn't a master of the arts but they always managed to capture the soul and life of their subjects

you've always wondered how they managed to do so but they only shrug, smile at you and say that they just draw what they see.

and somehow that makes so much sense as they've always had a bright soul

and you wanted nothing but to treasure that

likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated, sweethearts <3

[sillyrabbit81]

The Fallen Wolves Brotherhood - Part Seventeen

Series Summary: Lori "Babycakes" Tate swore she would never date a biker but when her life is in danger, she is put under the protection of a small club known as The Fallen Wolves Brotherhood. She suddenly finds herself attracted to not one, but five bikers.

A reverse harem, biker AU.

Part Seventeen Summary: Lori finds out more about Jake. Walker finds out about the pact.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC, Walter Marshall x OFC, Mike x OFC, Geralt x OFC, August Walker x OFC

Word Count: Approx. 3.4k

Warnings:

Series Warnings: Reverse harem, age gap (OFC 23, ages range from 23 to mid 40s), oral sex (male and female receiving), unprotected p in v sex, anal sex, group sex, masturbation, praise kink, mentions of body fluids, drug use, recreational drinking, sex work, criminal activities, mention of death, violence, use of weapons, mentions of war, mentions of abuse, angst, fluff, probably a lot more that I will add as they come up.

Part Seventeen Warnings: slight angst, violence, mentions of blood, implied smut

Authors Note: Thanks as always to my lovely BBFs (Best Beta's forever) @henryobsessed and @nashibirne .

This chapter is from both Lori and Walker's POVs. I know it's a bit different to how I've been structuring the story, but I felt like it needed to be done this way.

There's more exposition here, but I think that will be all for a while.

Divider made by me. Edited by me, there will be errors.

Masterlist

Parts Masterlist

Part Sixteen Part Eighteen (coming soon)

Lori

“Are you sure you don’t want breakfast first?” Marshall asked as we approached the open door to Walker’s office.

I shook my head. “Let’s get this over with.”

He gave me a brief approving smile before cupping the back of my head and kissing me on the crown.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I took a deep breath to steel myself for what I was about to face and I walked into Walker’s office.

The space was simple enough, basically furnished with a dark, almost black, modern looking desk with a laptop and a number of open files and papers making a mess of the otherwise clean room. There was a matching filing cabinet and a bookshelf, a low modern black leather sofa and four simple chairs pushed against one of the grey walls and the floor was carpeted in a similarly grey rug. The only feature that appeared decorative was an abstract art piece that ran nearly the entire length of the wall.

It immediately caught my eye; it was impossible to ignore. The work was lit by museum style lighting and spread over two canvases. It was mostly white with sometimes wispy, sometimes harsh, feathery slashes of black, grey and brown paint. While there was an obvious darkness to the piece, there was something heartachingly optimistic about it. For some reason I was reminded of being a kid, blowing hard on a dandelion and watching with glee as the pappus floated away on the wind carrying with them the potential for adventure and a new life.

Walker cleared his throat. I glanced at him quickly, he was taking his seat behind the desk and Marshall was carrying over two chairs. I turned back to the painting and tried to reconcile the art with its owner, but couldn’t for the life of me see the connection.

What would a piece like this mean to a man like Walker? If it was simply melancholic and evoked feelings of fear and dread, I could see the attraction for him. However, the undeniable sense of potential hope and happiness born from the darkness had my curiosity piqued. Why would he not only buy it, but give the piece a place of honour, something that no other object in this room seemed to have? It couldn’t have been cheap, the artist was no doubt talented and experienced; it must have cost a fortune.

“Oh,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes. “Of course.”

It was an investment and a way to hide his true net worth from authorities. Granted, it was a high brow, convoluted way of laundering money, but it wasn’t unheard of, especially for international criminal syndicates. It was the only explanation that seemed plausible.

Taking one last look at the painting, I sat down next to Marshall. He pulled out his notebook while Walker selected one of the files scattered over his desk and opened it. He selected a page and showed it to me.

It was a grainy and dark photograph of the interior of a nightclub and appeared to have been lifted from security footage. A number of people were in the shot, mostly holding drinks and standing in groups of twos or threes. At first I didn’t grasp the significance of the picture, then I gasped as I recognised the couple in the middle of the frame.

“Jake,” I whispered. 

“Jacob Owen Wright,” Walker corrected.

Barely able to tear my eyes from the photograph, I looked at the two men, “How did you find him? Just from this picture?”

Marshall looked a little sheepish and glanced at Walker who showed no embarrassment. “I had some associates sweep your apartment for fingerprints and DNA.”

“What?” I asked, my voice hard with anger. “You had no right to do that without asking.”

Walker took out another couple of pages and showed me pictures of what I recognised to be Jake’s apartment only by the kitchen cabinets because the rest of the apartment was completely bare.

“We didn’t have a lot of options. The whole place was scrubbed. Not a single piece of usable evidence was found to start an identification. Your apartment was the only other place we knew for sure that he’d been.”

“You could have asked,” I said, only partly paying attention to what I was saying.

My mind was in a whirl and I found it difficult to pin down any single thought. It was clear that Jake had lied to me about who he was and what his interest in forming a relationship with me was, but this along with the tracking device suggested that a bigger conspiracy was at play.

“So, you found something in my apartment?”

“Not a lot, but enough for an ID. A thumbprint was found on the top edge of the headboard of your bed and further examination found the rest of the prints on the back as if it had been grasped and used for purchase,” Walker informed me blankly.

My cheeks heated as I realised how those prints got there. I remembered when it had happened and remembered looking at the athletic cords of his arm muscles stretching and contracting as he used the bed as an anchor to go harder and deeper. I felt like such a fool. In the back of my mind I must have known there was something off about him, which was probably why I never want the relationship to make the transition from casual fuck buddies to something more serious. I don’t know why I ignored that feeling and let myself be drawn in by a man who had nothing to offer but lies and deception just because he had the veneer of civility. Looking up at Marshall, it struck me that while the Brothers appeared to be lawless and crude, they treated me better than any man I had known other than my father, Nate, and Hustle.

“Prints on file mean a criminal record right?” I asked.

Again the two men exchanged glances and again Walker spoke, “Not necessarily. But in this case, yes. One offence in New Mexico as a youth. While he was born in your home town, it appears as though he moved around a lot. His mother, born Louise Anne Huxley, married several times, however Jacob’s birth certificate lists no father and we haven’t been able to find one. Louise changed her name several times, with each marriage and on a few occasions without a marriage. Jacob’s birth name was Jacob Flynt, but he has also been known as Turner, Johnson and now, Wright.”

I peered at the photo of me and Jake again. He never even mentioned that he had been born in my hometown, only saying he had moved there a few months before we met; he hadn’t even said moved back. He hadn’t been open about himself like Marshall or Sy, or even Mike and I never would have asked him to be. I’d known the Brothers less than a week and I knew more about each of them than I did about Jake. Well, except for Walker.

“Anything else?”

Walker shook his head. “We have more leads to run down, I’ll let you know if we find anything more significant.”

“You’ve had some time to think,” Marshall said, “have you thought of anything else, anything at all that could help with the investigation?”

“No. Nothing I haven’t already told you.” My eyes were drawn back to the canvas. “Have you told my brother? Does he know anything about this?”

“I spoke to Hustle—” Walker started.

“I asked about Nate,” I brought my attention back to Walker whose jaw muscles quivered beneath his stubbled cheek. “Have you spoken to him?”

“No.”

I nodded and swallowed down my fear. Nate must be alright; Hustle would have said if he wasn’t and despite everything, I’m sure Walker would tell me if something had happened to him.

“Is that all? Can I go now?” I asked.

Walker gave me a curt dip of his head, so slight it couldn’t be called a nod.

I stood and turned swiftly on my heels as I headed for the door.

Walker

Marshall gave me a flat, unimpressed stare as he followed Lori out of my office.

“Jesus,” I muttered as I placed the papers and photographs back in the manilla folder. What the hell did I do this time to get her so riled up? 

Sighing, I tapped the file on the desk and glanced up to see Marshall lifting Lori’s chin with a crooked finger in a way that suggested a familiarity that was far too inappropriate for my liking. It was a good thing Sy wasn’t here to witness it; no doubt he’d go completely apeshit. A kiss on the cheek was one thing, even Mike’s game yesterday was basically harmless, but the way Marshall was looking at Lori was absolutely not benign. 

I was sure Marshall would pull away before they actually kissed. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to kiss her; the girl was far too attractive for her appeal to be ignored. She was artlessly beautiful and she had a spark of fiery willfulness that always made my cock ache when I imagined seducing her into submission. But this wasn’t about Lori, I didn’t give two shits if Lori stepped out on Sy, it was about Marshall. Marshall wouldn’t betray Sy, he wouldn’t betray a Brother. Surely he wasn’t going to—

“Holy Shit!”

He did it, he actually kissed her.

My blood ran like napalm through my veins, my sight going red as I lept my desk and letting the uncontrolled rage rush through my system along with the burst of adrenaline, I let it all out in one furious punch squarely in the middle of Marshall's face.

A scream and a warm spray of blood slapped me across the face, quickly sobering me. 

Oh fuck, what have I done?

Marshall held his nose, no doubt busted and Lori was pushing me out of the way as she tried to get Marshall to lower his hands so she could see the damage. Marshall wasn’t having it, stepping around her as he confronted me.

“You deserve that, you know you do,” I said, coolly.

“And why the fuck would I?” Marshall said, blood pooled in his mouth which sprayed out as he spoke.

“You think Sy would have gone easier on you? Should I have just let him deal with this?”

“And why the fuck would you care what Sy would do?”

“I’m not going to let a woman break this club up, I don’t care who the fuck she is.” 

“It’s not what you think Walker,” Lori had the hide to say. I turned on Lori, her face was pale with fear, but she held her chin up as if daring me to hit her too. Fuck, she was killing me.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about Walker,” Marshall added.

“What else could I think? You’re kissing his fucking woman. You think he’s going to shrug and get over it? You’ve put the whole club in jeopardy and—”

“Walker!” Geralt entered my office, planting himself firmly between Marshall and me.

“He was kissing Lori,” I said. Jesus, I sounded like a kid trying to obfuscate responsibility after being busted by their dad. I may as well have pointed at Marshall and cried, he started it.

Geralt didn’t react. Not even a tiny twitch of his eye.

“You knew? You knew and you didn’t think to stop it before he came back? He’s going to fucking kill him.”

Geralt sighed and looked at the grey carpet now decorated with a blood splatter that Dexter Morgan would have been proud of.

“Lori, take him to the kitchen and put some ice on his nose.”

Lori gave me a look of disgust that made my guts twist. Fear, I could deal with; disgust was something else entirely. Marshall still had his eyes trained on me, his eyes darkened with murderous ambition. I readied myself for him to attack, but Lori took his hand, with a gentle tug and he let himself be led away.

I turned my attention back to Geralt as Marshall and Lori disappeared into the hallway.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” I said to Geralt, turning back to my desk and sitting in my chair.

Stunned, I sat slack jawed as Geralt explained the situation - the pact the others had made - although it sounded too far fetched to be true. But it made a lot of things fall into place and explained what the others had been whispering amongst themselves over the past few days.

How could I have missed this? How could I not have known what was going on. Jesus, what else was going on in the club that I didn’t know about?

“What happens when the job is over?” I asked when he finished talking.

“Same rules as before, she decides what she wants,” Geralt replied.

“What if she wants to go home? Would you go with her?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Jesus. You’d let the club fall because of the whims of some girl?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“When were you going to tell me? When you were all packed up ready to leave and I’d be stuck here holding my dick,” I seethed through gritted teeth. “I’d expect something like this from Sy, he’s always been a little soft when it comes to women. Or Mike even, he’s a fucking kid. But Marshall? You? No. I thought you knew what we were doing here, what we were working for.”

“I don’t think she will want to leave when this is over, I think she’s found her place here.”

“This is no place for a woman.”

“She knows what she's getting into. She’s not naive.”

Geralt’s nonchalance about this whole situation was doing my head in. There was so much that could go wrong here. We could lose it all because my Brothers couldn’t think with anything but their dicks.

“You don't have to be on the outside looking in,” Geralt said with a sly smirk. “She likes you too, you know.”

I laughed, curling my lip and showing Geralt my teeth. “I saw the look on her face, she’s terrified of me.”

“Not of you, of what you represent.”

“I don't share my toys," I sneered.

Geralt nodded slowly. “It’s your call,” he stood, “I'll go check on Marshall.”

“Tell him…” I ground my teeth, what the fuck do I say?

Geralt paused and waited.

“Nothing.”

I glanced at the painting on my wall. The darkness loomed larger than usual and I turned away again quickly, not daring to hope for some light.

Over the next few days the divide between my Brothers and I widened while the others seemed to draw together as they closed in on Lori. Normally there was a schedule set up for guarding a client, even inside the clubhouse, but Lori didn’t need one; she was never alone. She went from Marshall, to Geralt, to Mike, back to Marshall. I didn’t bother offering to take even an hour of guard duty. I wasn’t asked to anyway.

I dared not ask which of my Brothers she was fucking. Marshall obviously, but had Mike and Geralt gone there too? It didn’t look like it, but I couldn’t be sure. I should have nipped the situation in the bud that first night when I found Sy in bed with her.

Dinners alternated between awkward affairs and actually entertaining. Mike in particular was lively, filling dull moments with jokes and conversation. But usually towards the end of the meal Marshall would look at Lori, and the air in the room became electrified as if statically charged. I would leave the room as soon as possible.

One evening after dinner, I walked into the common room and the four of them were there. Perched on Geralt's knee, it appeared she was playing a card game against Mike and Marshall, a small stack of chips were in front of each of them. Her brows were drawn low in concentration as Geralt whispered in her ear and pointed at her hand.

They all looked up simultaneously. Mike and Marshall dropped their heads back to their cards, Marshall still hadn’t forgiven me for the punch and barely spoke to me during meals. His bruising had faded to a few dark circles under his eyes and he had a small cut on the bridge of his nose. Geralt nodded in greeting but didn’t say anything. 

Lori watched me move around the bar until Mike pulled her attention back to the game.

“It’s your turn Babycakes.”

She peeked over her shoulder at Geralt and pointed at a card. He nodded and grinned. Lori dropped the cards onto the table with a smirk and Mike groaned while Marshall dropped his hand with a disgruntled sigh.

“I won?” Lori asked, grining.

“G won,” Mike grumbled under his breath while Marshall nodded.

She raised her hands into fists above her head and bounced excitedly on Geralt’s knee. I turned my attention to pouring my drink, slamming the glass down angrily on the counter.

“Should we play again?” I heard her ask.

“I’ll deal,” Mike said.

“Walker, do you want in?” Lori asked.

I paused, the bottle of whiskey poised just about to pour.

“On the game,” she added.

Mike snickered.

I started to pour myself a generous amount before raising my head. All four of them were looking expectantly at me. I raised my glass to my lips and had a sip, relishing the sweet burn as it passed my throat and settled in my belly.

“No thanks,” I said, already walking across the room, “some people have to work around here.”

I went back to my office. I didn’t have any work to do, not really. All the leads we had in the investigation into Jake were being handled externally by various contacts who worked for us on occasion and I had decided not to take any more jobs until this one was over. We’d had requests and offers, but after investigating Jake and relaying the information to Hustle, I had a nagging feeling something wasn’t adding up. I think we were going to need everyone on this and Sy’s experience in particular was needed.

I lit a cigar and went to the sofa on the wall. I stared at the painting on the wall as I smoked, and drank, waiting patiently for the heavy buzz that would let me sleep.

I was getting close when the gate alarm went off. I went back to my desk and checked the camera feed and saw Sy rolling the large wire gate shut before riding off to the garage. I sat in the chair and waited.

It wasn’t long before he appeared, bag slung over one shoulder, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Walker,” he said.

“How did it go?”

He placed his helmet carefully on the desk, shrugged then sat. “It was straightforward. No problems. Need a report?”

I shook my head, “Not unless there’s something we should be aware of in future.”

He grimaced, “One or two things, but nothing urgent. I’ll get it to you in a few days.”

“Fine.” 

I expected him to leave but he stayed sitting in the chair. After a few moments he spoke. “How is she?”

“Alive,” I said.

He nodded. Quiet again, he looked all around my office at everything except me then spoke again. “Where is she?”

“I last saw her in the common room with the others. If they aren’t there, then I expect she’s with Marshall,” I paused, trying to figure out what the fuck he was thinking, but he gave nothing away so I added, “Like every other night since we got here.”

He nodded again. Still nothing, his face totally impassive, I couldn’t get a read on him at all.

Sy stood suddenly, “I’ll get that report to you soon.”

I wanted to ask him where he was going to go; his room or Marshall’s? I wanted to ask him why he did it, I wanted to tell him I couldn’t have done what he did, I wanted to punch the shit out of him and tell him he was a fucking idiot. Instead I waited until he left and went back to the sofa and stared at the painting on the wall again until I fell asleep.

[sirhyst]

Call of Duty OC: Reghan Satrinava-Idrissu

Physical features Questions

ALL CREDITS GO TO @escapetoluna FOR THE QUESTIONS LIST

Note: more Sergeant Satrinava 🤓 I didn’t answer all the questions since some of the info is already in the ‘dossier’ I posted earlier. ♡☆°・

————————————————————————-

What colour is their hair?

Black, but he has natural strands of white

How long is their hair?

In its natural state, it rests at his waist, but if flat ironed, it’s down to her ankles. Yes, she has been asked to cut it, and no, she will not.

Does it cooperate? Is it frizzy? Does it stay in place?

It cooperates for the most part. He doesn’t spend too much styling it (he doesn’t know how).

Reghan is very particular about his hair though and knows what products to use when washing it and as a daily moisturiser.

How do they usually wear their hair?

When on missions, he either has it braided or in a bun. When he’s at home/base, he lets that shit roam free.

Do they play with their hair? What about when they’re upset or nervous?

Reghan is always fiddling with her hair even when she isn’t nervous. That being said, Captain Price knows when she’s getting restless if she’s moving her hair around a lot.

What is their eye colour?

Gold. it is literally the gold equivalent to the blue eyed stare, especially since his skin is much darker in contrast.

Him and Johnny purposely stare at everyone intensely. (Reghan taps out as soon as the person makes eye contact though)

How would you describe what their features look like?

He has surprisingly soft facial features, but nobody notices until they get a proper look at him, but her muscles and height make her seem rougher.

Do they have any piercings?

Reghan has a few ear piercings and has a fake septum ring that he wears some days.

Do they have any tattoos?

Both his arms and legs are COVERED in tattoos. What most people don’t know is that he brings his sibling Basil with him to numb the area getting tattoos because he will cry otherwise.

Left arm:

Stylised version of the welsh dragon swirling onto his chest

Stars

Plants

Bugs

Cultural designs

Abstract designs

Eyes

Planets

Other small designs (everytime you look at his arms, you get the urge to find Waldo…Captain Price actually found him)

Right arm

Similar to left arm

Dandelions

Crows

Fish

Legs

Sword

More cultural designs

Snakes

sun/moon

Ass

Small Moon jellyfish (right asscheek)

Back

not even gonna bother listing all of ‘em.

Do they often paint their nails?

As often as he can since he’s in the military, but he only likes black

Are their hands worn / rough?

His hands are pretty rough and have a few scars from being in the military

Do they pick / bite their fingernails?

Yes, but he tries to tone it down if he’s just gotten his nails done.

Do they pick at their skin or at scabs?

She picks at her skin. She used to pick at her scabs, but Price started spraying her with water every time to break the habit since Reghan would bleed depending on how bad it was.

Are they very tall?

Yes. Reghan is still holding onto that title as the tallest in the army.

She’s very strong as well, more than she is aware. She has playfully pushed someone and sent them flying. Since then he has been extra careful with how he is with his teammates.

Even though she towers over everyone, she’s very cuddly. He usually lays down on top of Soap when they’re cuddling, but only rests the upper half of her body on him so she doesn’t accidentally crush him to death.

————————————————————————-

[iffoundreturntosea]

January 21, Day 21

Day 21 2015

Another difficult day.

#picoftheday #project365 #day21 #bestrong #dontgiveup #sickofbeingsick

This was my Aunt's horse, Callie. So beautiful.

Day 21 2016

Rainbow Dash's abode!

#blue #january #shadesofblue #magnets #magformers #mlp #rainbowdash #ponies #picoftheday #project365 #day21

Day 21 2017

Dandy

#dandelion #outdoors #nature #circle #circleoflife #january #picoftheday #project365 #day21

Day 21 2018

Wishing I was really there!

#beach #jamaica #island #painting #art #artbyclive #palmtree #ocean #night #wishiwasthere #keyhole #cutout #differentview #january #picoftheday #project365 #day21

Day 21 2019

Some hugs are the best therapy.

#me #niece #family #love #smile #sweet #hugs #hugging #nationalhuggingday #january #nationalday #natonaldaycalendar #picoftheday #project365 #day21

Day 21 2020

Whirled all the color go?

#punny #blackandwhite #greys #greytones #sculpture #andrewcarsonsculpture #whirl #whirlygig #january #january21 #2020 #picoftheday #project365 #day21

Day 21 2021

Shrouded in mystery

#justme #eyes #create #new #fun #layers #light #purple #lessstressmorefun #whateverthehelliwant #january #january21 #2021 #picoftheday #project365 #day21

Day 21 2022

I love that I never now what my picture of the day will be!

#leo #kitty #cat #furbaby #scarfplay #geniecat #magic #create #january #january21 #2022 #picoftheday #project365 #day21

Leo hated to be dressed up but sometimes I just couldn't resist. If I could just have one wish, he never would've gotten sick.

Day 21 2023

I've read some really good books already this year! Can't wait for more!

#books #reading #cantwaitforkenfollettsnewbook #someofmyfavs #january #january21 #2023 #picoftheday #project365 #day 21

I listened to the audio of The Armor of Light by Ken Follett and it was fantastic!

Day 21 2024

If you guess what this is correctly I will send you a free print!

#abstract #dailytheme #color #bright #dark #create #art #nohinthere #january #january21 #2024 #picoftheday #project365 #day21

This was fun! I will have to play around with the technique I used and see what else I can create.

[warriors-wyrms-writing]

The House

a story where something is not quite right.

    At a traveler’s first glance it may have seemed an ordinary house, albeit a bit large. However, it was anything but. Such a thing could be seen by the more keen of observers as far away as the wrought-iron gate, noticing the fantastical creatures and strange runes hidden within the intricate whorls and spirals. Most dismissed it as curious and went on their ways, and even those who didn’t initially were forced to, for the only time the heavy gates screeched open was when a new family took up occupancy, which happened rarely, and none of the residents deigned to leave except in boxes, even to retrieve food, all of the inhabitants as far back as memory served always having their few goods delivered through a hatch in the gate. That was the closest “common” folk ever got to the house, unable to see over or even really through the closely-woven iron.

  If any of them had on a regular day, they would have seen a stone path forgotten by time and people, overgrown with moss and wildflowers that children would gather up by the bunches when they lived there, and for a few weeks, the worn white stones would be visible once again among the waving grasses. If—and this is growing exceedingly unlikely—by any chance someone was to journey along the forgotten stone path through the clover and dandelions and actually approach the front door, they’d notice an elaborate white arched doorway, carved with waves and dolphins and with fishes and seashells.

     Ensconced within this intricate frame was a wooden door, sometimes red, sometimes black, it’s only extraordinary quality that it was always faded. And, of course, the silver door knocker. This intricate knocker was almost never used, but it was beautiful despite, or perhaps because of, it, carved into the shape of a dragon with a coiled tail. Though the detailed knocker was seen by so few, those who did gaze upon it did so for the rest of their lives, along with every other detail of the great red-brick house. It wasn’t just a house you lived in; it was a house that lived in you.

     If one got past that marvelous knocker, which on the date of this writing very few have, they would find themselves standing on a rug so red that one could almost fancy that it had been stained such with the blood of former occupants, staring out at softly tinted lilac walls and honey-gold wooden floors, and a crystal chandelier larger than the world’s tallest and fattest men combined and shining like a thousand captured stars in the light streaming through the great bay windows of the house’s welcome-room.

     If a resident (all who have ever beheld theses scenes have been residents) were to advance up the white-carpeted spiral staircase in the room’s middle as they all did eventually, they’d find a long hallway, seemingly windowless but lined with white doors along the corridor of which the walls had been painted with mint in an age time has forgot, but which still looked like it had been done last week.

     The rooms beyond the doors were all exactly the same, although with the house’s layout and outward appearance that seemingly would have made no sense to an outsider, although whenever you were actively beholding it it seemed perfectly reasonable. All these bedrooms were splendid, and would have been the envy of the state had they known of them. With a beautiful and cheerful abstract pattern, though still identical to those in the other rooms, letting in flecks of colored light that danced upon the yellow walls and flitted over the dresser and nightstand’s painted vines and flowers, pausing only to linger on the sunny blue blankets that lay upon the bed.

     If one elected not to venture up that spiral and instead went around it’s back, they’d find themselves in a kitchen tiled with geometric patterns in small black diamonds and with copper pots hanging over the black counters shot through with white from the underside of the dark cabinets fixed to the walls, the silver handles appearing to drip off them like teardrop earrings.

     At the far end of the kitchen was a swinging door such as everyday folks see in a restaurant, and if one were to go through it they’d enter the dining room, home to a chandelier even more impressive than the one in the welcome-room, structured too instead of merely a cascade of prisms. The candles held by its branching golden arms would illuminate a dining table and chairs carved with the same whorls as the fence outside, complete with the hidden pegasi and griffins, dragons and twisted runes, climbing up legs and backs, hissing malevolently at the residents of the cabinets of golden wood that lined the deep forest green walls, intricately painted dishes and vases accompanying sculptures of people and animals and a few strange mixtures of the two behind the glass fronts.

     The chandelier would also, more likely than not, illuminate a small passageway five feet high and three wide, lined in mirrors. If one would so choose to enter this strange passage, they would find it full of sharp corners and unexpected turns before it suddenly spit them out at the back of the house, near the dark grey rear door, the passage they had just emerged from looking like a mere unassuming crack in the red brick.

     They could re-enter the house through the grey door, but unless they knew about the key, hidden within the beak of the bird carved into the doorknob, it was unlikely. This was when the front-door’s dragon knocker was most often used, for few could find the mirrored hallway from outside. If, after re-entry of the welcome-room, they would turn right, they’d find themselves in a room with walls and cushioned couches of maroon and gold, and a fireplace large enough for a midnight tryst. The walls round the room were hung with portraits in ornate gold frames, or at least gilded thus. 

     If one did all that they would have explored all the house easily accessible, though not even half of the whole. After all, they hadn’t even discovered the secret greenhouse yet, but ah, maybe another time we’ll explore the innumerable mysteries of that strange house.

[egpenrose]

Writing one looooooong sentence

I am going through the writing exercises in Steering the Craft by Ursula K. Le Guin. As much as I thought I struggled with writing only short sentences, writing one mammoth sentence was harder. Le Guin suggests a goal of 350 words and after a couple of revisions I got up to 121.

This work, simply titled "Prora Prohesy #13," depicts a man—possibly of Huryian descent—wielding a sword-like weapon with other disjointed elements (most notably a frog, an oil latern, and a dandelion seed) placed over an abstract background, and was painted by Prora Chamberlain, widely considered a prodigy of the divinity arts, in 3092—near the end of Chamberlain's life at age 22—for his patron Mr. Ekleipsis Oberron, a tenured professor of divinity at Lignum Parvum University that Chamberlain once studied under and developed a close personal relationship with despite their age differences, which added credance to the Oberron Interpretation of Prora Prohesy #13 claiming that the main subject is Mr. Oberron himself, as oracles often channel premontions regarding those closest to them.

[allthatisleftinthedark]

A Change

Rated: M (implied violence, predatory behavior, nudity) - English - Second-Person/Introspection - Words: 2162- Cast: Maisie Doscedar, minor Naima Doscedar

Humidity oppresses the morning air, a nebulous horizon inhabiting the cramped quarters. A white mist swells, clouding your vision, and hugs every contour of the room. Alas, sunlight spills through a tiny overhead window, painting the haze with an early morning golden glow.

A draft of cold air slips through, teasing your drenched body. Your body reacts instinctively, shivering. 

Water beads down your skin, the splitting droplets familiarizing themselves with the landscape of your body, from the curvature of your shoulders to the dips of your hips. Even the long curls cling to your skin, weighted down by the moisture it soaked like a sponge. 

The rivulet begins canvassing your worn, scar-mapped left arm. It flows between large uniformed divots, with pale, etched streaks starting at your shoulder and ending before the wrist. History carved into flesh saw the dignity of time. The healed skin is now smoother and less distorted than its original conception from hot blood and tears decades ago.

Other, younger, fresher scars break through the well-worn pattern on your arm by being in the opposite direction. These marks are more jagged, their width thicker than two of your fingers. They are fresher and more recent to memory. An incessant ringing begins resonating in your ears as your eyes stare into the unspoken story written in your skin. 

The memory creeps like a door to a dark hall creaking open—a struggle under the moon's spectral glow, a silver blade gleaming in the moonlight. 

Your breath, steeled and disciplined, conflicts with the frenzied trepidation in your eyes. An indignant hand reaches out, morphed into claws by the night's shadows. The blade moves with a butcher's precision, twisting effortlessly without resistance like it would through a pig's stomach. One fist clenches and pulls plum-bright hair while the other clutches around your windpipe, squeezing precious air from your lungs. 

Crimson begins to dye your vision. 

Your breath hinges at the base of your throat. Shaking your head, you dispel the malevolent presence. Your gaze retreats from the scarred reminders on your arm, slowly inhaling through your nostrils. 

Today's the day. Today's the day.'  

Returning to the enveloping mist in the room, you seek salvation elsewhere. You raise your fingers, cutting through the fog like ribbons. 

Navigating through the seemingly endless haze, your fingertips make out a cold surface. A slight squeak comes as you leave streaks of clarity against the surface. You see two large yellow dots, brighter than dandelions, staring back at you—your eyes.

Reaching out, you place your slightly pruned hand onto the surface, leaving a handprint on the condensation. Once more, you begin wiping away the mist; your face appears increasingly with each stroke. Each wipe reveals a more concrete image of your person, as opposed to the abstract shadows surrounding you. 

Familiarizing yourself with your reflection, long, bright purple locks cascade over your shoulder. Palms rest on the rims of the sink as you lean forward, staring back upon the form before you.

All the life around you continues as you attune yourself to the sounds. 

In the small family washroom in the family home, you stand alone and in a towel, self-reflecting literally and figuratively. That conclusion turns the corners of your lips, stifling a little giggle. 

Yet, the reminders of life reverberate to the walls. From below, pots and pans clink from the kitchen where Sayer is likely preparing breakfast, accompanied by the faint strums of a harp, undoubtedly Cyrus collaborating ideas of the newest ballad. 

Beneath your feet, the hearth crackles when heat is needed. Slowly a chair squeaks, rocking back and forth with the guidance of a foot, to which you imagine your ma. A pipe tucked into her lips as she contemplates retirement, still not fully accepting it. 

From the door in front of you, shoes shuffle, heavier than the last, those belonging to Emery after a long-imposing meeting from last night. The one who took after ma, the current duty hasn't lessened from predecessor to successor. 

With a shared wall, your ears catch the creaks of an oversleeper's mattress. Another susceptible to late nights, despite having no current job, Oren tosses and turns in his sleep. In the back of your mind, you can picture his perfectly tucked sheets under the mattress as he obscures the sunlight with his oversized hat. 

Almost silent, your chin looks over your shoulder towards the floor—a muffled rhythmic utterance from a bedroom below. A rare morning presence, but it is of Isla. Absconded from village life, it seems her best place of residence was the forest engulfing the village or the family estate. 

Words are inaudible, foreign to the material plane, but each enunciation plucks like a finger to harp. The wind usually carries these chants for the flowers, trees, and wildlife to appreciate the thanks and blessings. Alas, to be confined to the four walls of the home, a thought sprout regarding your sister: has the forest spirits overwhelmed her again?

This imagination of yours is at its worst this morning! 

Your eyes flutter to the sink's basin, making out the alabaster finish. Shaking your head to rearrange the marbles in your mind, you look back at the mirror. 

An unmistakable reality. With every lock springing in every other intended direction, seeking its path, tangled and knots apparent at the edges from refusing a pre-shower comb, your hair is entirely wild and unkempt. 

"..This needs to get tamed." Pinching the bridge of your nose, a shallow inhale comes before leaning down. Opening the top bathroom drawer, your finger rifles through its familiar content with a clink and clatter. 

Sifting through wooden brushes and other items, something cold tingles at your fingertips.

You blink. It is a well-worn pair of scissors that was used by the household. Primarily by your pa to tend to his beard and then by Isla to keep her fringes above her brow. 

Like any ordinary pair of scissors, your mind concludes. Dulled by time, humidity, and usage, nothing is so different from them the last time you saw them.

Your nose wrinkles, glossing over it, continuing to tread through until you find your comb. Hopefully, Oren didn't decide to pocket it for himself again and keep it in his shirt pocket. 

There it is! 

Fishing through the drawer, that hand-carved comb is in your possession. Lifting your head, your gaze flits back to the mirror. Untamed hair cascade over your shoulders.

An uncomfortable weight comes to the base of your throat. Eyes fade, the electricity in your body fades slowly; cold air brushes against your skin, yet you do not shiver.

An unsolicited memory floats to the surface. Not painting the image of cozy times in the household, roughhousing in the fields with your brothers, or being thrown about by ma or Emery in training. 

The flooring peels from beneath your feet. The comb isn't in your hands anymore. The ceiling disappears into the darkness. The warm glow of sunlight fades as mirrors disappear. The mirror drops to the missing floor. No more mist hangs in the room. 

All that is left is you in the dark.

Your eyes glimpsed into a corner of a closed room.

Over your shoulder, your hair has been combined to the side. 

Downwards, you are dressed in a bright blue dress with black stockings and ankle-high boots. Formal wear. 

The grimoire gifted to you by your older siblings is on your belt, and your legs are slightly spread. Guard stance. 

To your side was the one you were responsible for today. On behalf of Emery's orders, a personal request made by the man himself, you were standing guard during a local summit held in the town between the neighboring settlements on the east side of the river, Dewburrow included.

Faust Glelffacks, one of the village elders, always sported thick glasses on all occasions, kept his balding head shined and his auburn hair tied back. Behind his peculiar lenses, it was hard not to see brown-and-black eyes. 

One bandaged hand folded above the other, your was high, and your eyes were forward. Still as a statue, stalwart as a brick. Glelffacks' hand groped your shoulder, inviting further conversation and forbidding another choice.

"What a young woman you've become," Bearing your vision into the dark, an old hoarse chortle comes. "Every time I see you, you change for the better." Your face turns, providing a polite and slight nod, thanking his acknowledgment. 

Attempting to look forward again, acting as a guard would, the elder beguiles again. He tugs you back to look at him. 

"Already 15? Ah, I remember when you only reached my shoulder. Look at you now, towering over Naima." A smile fixed on his face, your held your gaze, returning the smile. 

Underneath the many-wrinkled smile, the carnivorous gaze sculpts and scrutinizes you. "Oh, the similarities..."

"Such a magnificent color as expected from a Doscedar. A beautiful length like your mother and Emery's."

He takes a breath. Your hands clench. "As sweet as lavender," he affirms, "but it's really specious as foxgloves." 

Fingers toy with the end of your hair, ruining the natural curled ends with rubbing and pinching between his fingertips. 

"An ambassador needs to have an eclectic toolbox," he yanks a lock. 

In the corner of your eyes, you glimpse him running it underneath his nostrils. "Your long hair will help negotiations."

Dank-dank-dank....

Against the floor comes a sharp clatter, tearing from the enveloped shadows of memory. Lungs squeeze in your chest as you stutter out a shallow inhale. 

Your eyes snap to the source. Now the cold floor was the comb that slipped from your hands from a momentarily forgotten grasp. 

Your hands clamp over your arms, to shoulders, repeatedly patting yourself. Checking. 

You dig your heel into the ground before clasping your hands together. Rubbing them together, you close your eyes, take the deepest breath, and hold it. 

Humidity clings to your flesh, and the droplets course through your body. There is rustling of sound sleep in neighboring rooms, the faint strums of harp downstairs accompanying a spatula scratching pan, and the hidden whisper of prayer in the corners of the home. Ma isn't in the foyer anymore.

S l o w l y, 

t h e 

a i r 

l e a v e s 

y o u r 

c h e s t 

a n d 

t h e 

t h o u g h t s 

c o m e 

u n d o n e. 

Eyes flutter open. Only your reflection greets you back to reality. Drawing your lips into your mouth, your focus darts away. 

Kneeling, you reclaim the comb. But, there your eyes are, gazing at the still-opened drawer. 

His words dig into you, and the compliment dissolves to its actual suggestion - it creeps underneath the skin. With every delicate sound of home life and the calmness of the schedule of everyone else in the home, the contrast is jarring. 

Shoulders slump, and you glance down at your still-wet footprints that led to the sink. Slowly and again, you breathe.

Minding clearing, chest rising and falling, you ground yourself, and your hand rests on the opened drawer. The only place to look was up now. 

There you are, cutting your hair. 

Your fingers hold and brush as you bring the blades into your hair. 

A sharp nose comes with every snip, another lock dropping into the sink.

The remains of vibrant purple and pink locks are in the sink's bowl. For most, this would be the burial site, a surrender. 

Yes, it is a deathbed, but it is a testament. 

Here lies wavering, relenting fools that think they know best. 

Here remains the unwavering, relentless bigger fool that thinks she knows better. 

When you look up to the mirror, the gnome in the mirror smiles back at you, eyes alight with excitement. Unforeseen future, the step into the unknown; this begins what you will be for the village. 

"Maisie? You've been in there for quite a while." Quiet rasps on the door greet you, tucking your face in said direction. Shoulders straighten with soldier expectancy, holding the scissor blades low and at your side. 

Ma.

"Sorry for the wait; I--" 

A racket in your chest as you glance at the mirror.

Sunflower-yellow eyes confide in you, 'Go for it cannot be taken back now.' 

"I was doing something."

"Oh, well, what is it?" Ma's voice sparks, steady as steel as always. 

"Well--" Hurriedly, do you piece together your uniform, clean out the sink, and fix the bathroom.

A final curtain call, your hand is on the cold doorknob. Swallowing the anxieties, you lower your head and take a deep breath before opening the door. 

"It's a change." 

[ask-underfazverse]

Oblivious to the waking world, lucifer flies through the skies of his warm, and comfortable dream. Going about his day, like he did years ago. Taking care of his siblings, sneaking off to play with mortals, but...

He is oddly more careful than usual. Flying too high gives him anxiety, he finds himself more tense around his father, but he can't place why...

He tries to ignore it, but the fact he's forgotten his nightmare doesn't make the terror pass. Like an itch he can't scratch. He tries to paint his dream in secret, to try and find a way to jog his memory. Abstract colors of red, purples, and blues... images of birds and cats... but nothing seems to work.

Gabriel comes up from behind, placing black dahlias on his head. 📜"Hello Luci! You haven't been out much today. What has gotten you so inspired?"👼🏼

He looks to the paintings, and shutters. 📜"stars... those are kinda creepy- what are you even TRYING to paint? They don't look like anything..."👼🏼

"I'm trying to figure out what I dreamt last night... it felt like an eternity, but I can't remember a bit of it. Just that it felt... bad."

Gabriel tenses. 📜"You? Feeling bad? Must've been a terrible nightmare then..."👼🏼

He hugs lucifer from behind, nuzzling himself in his hair. 📜"...at least it's over? You're awake, and you're safe. You know nothing bad will ever happen... father won't let anything too terrible happen to us, he'll hate it if we're ever that scared..."👼🏼

Lucifer scoffs. "Emphasis on hate..."

Gabriel pouts. 📜"What is THAT supposed to mean?"👼🏼

He just shakes his head. "I... I really don't know. After my dream, I've just felt bitter towards father... I don't know why."

📜"That's really weird."👼🏼

"Yeah... it is... I... I know how much he loves us..."

He looks up at the palace. "...he'd never hurt us..."

📜"...did you somehow get sick? Maybe one of your friends finally cursed you, like father said they would. My guess is that pretty Goddess you sometimes make paintings of. You did say she gets jealous easily, and you're absolutely BEAUTIFUL!"👼🏼

Lucifer laughs. "Who? Aphrodite? No, no- she would never! She knows I take more pride in others than myself, I'm not THAT beautiful to outmatch her!"

Gabriel giggles, swaying his hips. 📜"I don't knooooow... father DID make you really, really, really pretty!"👼🏼

Lucifer laughs. "But not THAT pretty!"

📜"Are you denying father's skill?"👼🏼

"What skill?"

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. Gabriel's playful mood drops, and he covers his mouth. 📜"Luci-"👼🏼

Lucifer freezes up, pausing for several beats. "...why... w-why did I say that..? I know... I know father is incredibly skilled, and made so many perfect things... why did I...?"

He shakes his head, and resumes painting. "...stupid dream..."

He pauses a moment to look over his shoulder. "...Gaby? Please don't tell dad what I just said..."

Hesitantly the Archangel of Fertility nods. 📜"...I-I won't..."👼🏼

"...thank you... I'm just... very shaken from last night..."

📜"...I hope you feel better soon... maybe try talking to father on your own, if you don't?"👼🏼

"...maybe... I'll try that later... thank you for the flower crown, Gabriel."

Gabriel beams. 📜"Any time! I know how much you love flowers, and Mikey said you were feeling a little down today!"👼🏼

He starts to fly off. 📜"Feel better soon!"👼🏼

"I'll try!"

Lucifer giggles. Smiling as Gabriel leaves. After his brother does, his face slowly drops. He takes off the crown, and looks at the flowers. He doesn't know why, but these flowers make him uncomfortable...

He gently clasps his hands around them, as he continues to paint. This time, something more realistic to calm his nerves... a field of dandelions. But for some reason, the bright colors don't make him feel better....

The multiverse is full of infinite possibilities...

Most worlds tend to connect through similar builds. Through stories, people, themes...

It's no surprise seeing a stranger to the multiverse. What IS surprising, however, was his condition. Covered in deep wounds, limbs twisted and torn, and he appeared to be drowning in his own blood by the time he was found. Holy weapons were embedded in his skin, and the flesh sizzled liked bacon around it.

He had red skin, gray hooves, horns that looked far too round and circular to have normally grown out of his head. His long pointed tail is covered in hand prints, and there are bones exposed out of his back. He lays face first in a pool of his own boiling blood, barely breathing or moving.

@ask-underfazverse

Cry’s come from the mass amounts of strangers, many just back away to cowedly to do anything, but a few step up, and begin to heal him. Mainly the younger, less evil Malak’s, a few Doug’s that are just simply concerned, and only one Bierce.

Dream Malak very hurriedly takes him to his hospital, with the help of the others.

[apkfanda]

Fotogenic : Face & Body Editor

"EVERYONE IS PHOTOGENICS" Are you searching the right photo editing app for your mobile photography? "Fotogenic" is the best choices for photo editing app to suit every level of photographer. We've created an interactive help for you to understand how to use it for each feature. Even if you have never used photo editing app before, you will create wonderful works of art. It has an innovative and easy to use interface that creates a beautifully simple user experience. It's easy and intuitive for beginners yet capable enough to be appreciated by professional photographers. Features : TOOLS • Text On Path : Adding text on a path is an important way to create unique text effects • Speech Bubble : A fun way to perk up your photos is by adding cartoon style speech balloons • Captions : Add a caption below and above your photos • Stretch : Make you taller • Slimmer : It's a snap to get a leaner • Crop : Crop photo • Perspective : Fix Keystone distortion • Rotate : Turn your photo 90 degrees left or right • Straighten : You can easily fix slanted photos • Square Fit : Square photo without cropping • Mosaic : Hide the unwanted parts BEAUTY • Smooth : Flawless complexion • Whiten : Dazzling white smiles • Detail : It provides unrivaled clarity • Makeup : Adding a shadow for your eyes or paint a nice color for your lip • Clone : Eliminate unwanted objects • Bodybuilding : You can get an attractive and sexy body in seconds • Tattoo : You can get inspiration what symbol to put permanently on your body • Bronze Skin : Making your bronzer appear naturally sun kissed • Defocus : It allows you to focus a subject of your photo • Reshape : Simulate realistic plastic surgeries COLOR ADJUSTMENT • Vibrance : Well saturated colors • Color Splash : Nice looking abstract artworks • Color Replacement : Easily change the color of objects • Levels : Stretch brightness levels in a histogram • Filters : Hundreds of great photo filters in 5 different categories • Red Eye : Fix red eye effect • Lighting : Add depth and warmth • Channel Mixer : Adjust the percentages for the Red, Green and Blue • Brightness & Contrast : Fix too light or too dark areas • Sharpen : Almost every digital image needs at least a little bit of sharpening • HDR : Achieve an HDR (high dynamic range) look • Highlights & Shadows : Easy method for correcting lighting PAINT • Signature : Add digital Signature • Paint : Perfect tool for those who love the art of hand painted Artistic Brushes • Funny Brushes : 40 fun brushes in 5 different categories (Cute,Halloween,Indicator,Kid,People) • Weather : You’ll be able to transform the atmosphere of your picture in just a few seconds(Clouds,Lightning,Rain,Rainbow,Snow) • Glowing Lines : Wrap a part of the main object with a glowing beam of light (Glow lamp,sparkle,Fire,Glow Line) • Seagull : Create a wonderful graphic composition (Butterfly, Seagull) Live Brushes • Flare : Add magic to your photos • Bokeh : Create soft dreamy backgrounds • Money : Take them, they are flying into your hands! • Dandelion : Bring happiness to your photos • Bubble : Add the wonderful flying bubbles • Petals : Falling petals. Your photos will look very elegant and ethereal (Red Rose,Yellow Rose,Daisy,Autumn) • Confetti : Essential part of memorable photos • Shapes : The ideal complement for a fun photo composition TEXTURES • Mixer : One of the fastest ways to get amazing looking images is by using Blending modes. • Light Leaks :  Add an artistic touch to your photos • Grunge : Convert normal everyday photos into worn out style. • Gradient :  Create natural looking composite images. • Lens Flare : Trendy cool colorized photos • Vignette : A popular photo effect • Mask : Highlight a part of your image in different shapes • Frames : Dozens of Picture frame with 4 different categories • Doodle : Perfect way for you to add humor or feeling to your photo (5 different categories) • Borders : Create a simple but effective border Read the full article

[leahhicksart]

Website: https://www.leahhicks.com/

Address: Smiths Falls, Eastern Ontario, Canada

Through catastrophic brain injury and resulting trauma comes a channel of expression from which I create my artworks.

Having an education in art, I have learned skills such as Life drawing, Still Life, Shape, Principles and Elements, Colour, and Fundamentals. This has given me a successful career as a well-established professional artist.

My work is represented and seen throughout North America and I have participated in various regional art shows, and solo shows in Montreal, Ottawa, and Kingston as well as having been honored to participate in The Florence Biennale in Italy, Chicago USA’s Art Expo, Toronto’s Arta Gallery’s Modern Woman and London Vogue. My Artwork is currently being shown in Prestigious Galleries across Eastern Canada.

I have had my work mentioned in numerous documents and literature. My artwork has been heavily collected by the Federal Government of Canada as well as held in many private collections and in many countries.

I continue to challenge myself to create a multi-dimensional world on a two-dimensional stage in order to achieve depth and emotion in each piece.

‘Inspiring the mind, exploring the depths of the subconscious landscape’

Business Email: art@leahhicks.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/art.leah.hicks

Twitter: https://twitter.com/leahhicksart

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/art.leah.hicks/

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