#poneh post

[flutterblunt]

editing is my passion

[rasshu-benaiokny]

🐴PONEH PURSUITS🐴

This is probably going to be more of an Instagram series for the amount of feedback i get from dere but ill probably slide posts here too~

Instagram here

[randomkiwibirds]

don’t mind me just sitting here and freaking out about how beautiful the horses are in Cursed.

[pollylynn]

Billet Doux, Chapter 8—A Season Two Caskett Story, Now Complete

Title: Billet Doux, Chapter 8 WC: 1300

A/N: An insert for Sucker Punch (2 x 13)

She’s not relieved when he arrives. That’s not the right word for the feeling that makes its way along her nerve endings and all through her body. 

Her mind is filled with thoughts of good coffee and winter sun blazing through the windows. She rolls her shoulders into the memory of the pleasant warmth of clothes fresh from the dryer and the lemon-tinged scent of furniture polish. Her back is straight and her limbs are strong and steady with the imprint of words on the black behind her eyelids each night, and the exact thing she has needed to see, bright and early each morning. 

She is the sum total of such a brief history, and all of that is how she feels when he arrives. 

She doesn’t turn as he crosses to the nameplate end of her desk. She’s engrossed by the artistic license the Captain has exercised on behalf of the two of them. Montgomery has produced a great read, and she wants to see how it ends. So he stands at the nameplate end of her desk, patient, for once—or quiet, at least—and she keeps her eyes on the page in her hand.

She finishes the picaresque portion of the report. It ends with a distinct downshift in tone: It is my considered, professional opinion that Mr. Castle’s quick thinking and Detective Beckett’s level-headed action preserved the lives of NYPD personnel and civilian bystanders. Her heart stutters in her chest. She’s touched by the quiet support—the affirmation that there’s almost certainly nothing she could have done differently. The sentiment—the dispassionate assessment of a man she respects deeply—is all the more powerful for its understated contrast with the preceding pages.

Her gaze drops to the line awaiting her signature, right beneath the smooth flow of Montgomery’s. She doesn’t sign yet, though. It’s his story—Castle’s—as much as it’s hers, and he deserves to read it through first. 

She begins by answering the question he hasn’t asked, as though they’re already deep into the conversation. And that’s how she feels, too, She feels as though the two of them are—and have been from the beginning—deep in conversation. 

“Montgomery’s post-incident evaluation. You come off like Steven Seagal,” says with her chin still propped on her fist. 

He asks, with a hint of a smile in his voice, if he should be flattered or insulted. Both, she tells him as he finally sits. 

He is nervous. There’s no other word for the force behind his rapid-fire monologue about multicultural culinary bonanza he’s brought with him, the fuel that drives the jerky movements of his body as he sets container after container out on her desk. She watches in awe and thinks with a smile that it’s a good thing that she freed up all that space in her organizational frenzy. 

The smile is short-lived, though. It’s no certain thing. 

He’s nervous. It’s a role reversal that she wasn’t exactly expecting. All through this terrible, soul-shaking experience, he has been solid ground. He has been funny and serious and annoying in exactly the right ratios at exactly the right moments. His timing has been impeccable every single day during a period in which she has been erratic, unfocused, unpredictable. 

And now they’re here, face to face again, and she’d thought she’d be the nervous one. She’s become acquainted with tireless butterflies and twanging nerves. For a full day, she’s been worried that she would be at a loss for how approach him in the flesh, given the strange intimacies they’d fallen into so easily over six days at a distance. 

But she is not nervous. She is all the complicated and simple things she she has been since the moment she sensed his presence behind her. She feels all the simple and complicated ways she feels, and it’s just the two of them. The boys and Montgomery have long since gone, and the bullpen is mercifully quiet for once. 

She sets the report aside. She turns to face him with her folded hands resting atop the knee she has drawn up knee in a posture of patience. She waits for him to talk himself out for the moment. She lets the air between them fall quiet as he produces a pair of foil-wrapped hot dogs and reaches the end of his litany—the end of his bag of tricks. 

“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

It’s the right thing to say in exactly the right moment. He lifts his eyes to meet hers, and she sees so many complicated things. He doesn’t believe her—not yet—though he wants to, and it’s the right thing to say for just that moment, though it’s no panacea. 

“I overstepped. I came down here to say that I was sorry, and that I’m through.” 

The miserable words come pouring out of him. The last two steal her breath for a moment. They slam into her ribs, but it’s a thing as short-lived as the rueful smile of a moment ago. She quiets herself by an act of will—as though calm is some free-flowing substance she can simply draw inward, and the world in this moment seems to work that way. 

“I can’t shadow you anymore. If it wasn’t for me . . .” 

If it wasn’t for him. 

There are worlds contained within that subjunctive mood. There are histories and mythic figures. There is the lonely, static, insistently-just-fine woman she has been. There is another story entirely that she sees now she is so weary of reading, or writing, of starring in. 

“If it wasn’t for you,” she says, and in saying it, she dwells in half a dozen days for a pleasant moment before she arrives at what she really needs to say here—what truth it is that she must impart. “I would never have found my mom’s killer.” 

There’s more. There are worlds contained in what she has to say to him, here—face to face. There are masks shed on both sides and pretenses packed away. There are admissions about what her life is inalterably like, because of her mother’s death and the choices she made in the wake of it. There’s an admission that he is the first spark of joy—the first breath of relief—she has had in a decade, though she swears him to secrecy, and he makes the vow with the cheekiest of grins. 

They take up utensils. They take up arms against a sea of take out, and their conversation comes between determined mouthfuls. It comes in short bursts, familiar and comfortable enough that it seems like bubbles of light ought to enclose them. 

There is an ease to all of it that feels . . . permanent. It feels as if the time they spend in quiet, companionable conversation as day six draws to a close—the time they have spent together and apart in the days before this—has carried them far beyond their long-standing dance of two-steps-forward-three-steps-back.

She’s not sorry when it’s time to leave. That’s not precisely how she feels. 

The day has been demanding in the oddest ways, and when their feast is cleared away, when she does set pen to paper and signs the report, she finds she’s tired, as though she’s been flexing seldom-used muscles all day. It’s not far from the truth. 

Their good nights are quiet. They are companionable, in keeping with their evening. They feel . . . proper. 

But there’s the beat of butterfly wings when her phone vibrates before she reaches the corner. There’s satisfaction as she thumbs the phone on and finds the bubble, right and proper, too. 

Here if you want to talk. 

A/N: And that’s a wrap. Brain Poneh promised a whole lotta nothing and Brain Poneh delivered. Thanks for reading. 

[dteamhugs]

Relatively older than the rest

should’ve posted it sooner

I just messed around with designing oc's with a random ship generator, cause it actually helps design characters? Sorrez dat they're only noodle poodle doodles, school sucks, that's all I had time forrrr I have a little Undertale comic plaenned for y'all, I think it's goin rather well, so stay tuned! Or don't! If you! Don't want to..! anyway! 1) Here we have a duo of frens, (left-right) Pelt and Eeire Orchestra. Pelt is the daughter of Twilight Sparkle and some other mysterious poneh hmm, while Eri's parents are Vinyl Scratch and Rarity. They're gamer gal pals (well, at least Pelt is, while Eri composes video game soundtracks), they hang out together a lot, watch anime, eat stuff that barely resembles food and just stay up very late. Pelt usually takes advantage of the fact that Eri has a masters degree at levitating stuff and doesn't need to move during gaming at all. What are friends for? Pelt is also missing a back leg for reasons that are too serious for this drawing, so I'm not gonna mention em. Eri apart from composing likes to draw stuff too, and is quite good at programming, not to the point she'd make a game though. 2) Fluttershy and Zecora spawn, Oolong is a snarky mom of the group, she's an absolute god at making tea, but she spends most of the time pranking people and making awful dad jokes, except more mom jokes this time. From all these awful puns and gags you should never trust her, she'll always pull something on you. That bab is an Apple Bloom and Diamond Tiara babeyyy and he's like the most naive being in the universe, so naturally he usually hangs out with Olie, cause she's so cool. yeah. poor bab believes her and thinks she's brewing a badass potion or something now probably. Hope ya enjoyyy!

[isle-of-forgotten-dreams]

All my moneez....all gone nuuuuu~ 

(Sorry slow updates ha xP Sera’s been practicing on da journal a lot instead of the tablet... I looked back at all my art that I posted here...and I noticed that everytime I draw...I just have a ton of poop (Inconsistencies) that I HATE.  Ruins my mood everytime...especially the poneh body~ each image (don’t count this one)  is constantly different ; A;  I sound like a fool, but THIS GETS TO ME ALL DA TIME~ My aching brain.  College won’t help this out~ Yay probably 500 page Essay Projects and poop~ Wub wubs~ 

[b0ne-marrow]

General Sketch Dump

First off: Patreon hasn't been working for me as of late. I really can't do much, cuz even logging into Patreon off of postybirb I still can't post stuff. Ugh. Also, DA's been having trouble posting, so here's to hoping that it posts there. My horrendous Mcnuggets photo did because OF COURSE IT WOULD: https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Meep-Meep-805231092 Soooo, here's the sketch dump I've been talking about lol I wanted to add more to it but I just have had the worst time trying to think of anything else to add lol I've also been working on some adopts I need to get to people too so maybe that's getting to me as well I numbered them cuz it'd be easy to explain/write about them So, I guess I'll get into it: 1. I doodled Ami, one of my RWBY ocs! I wanted to doodle her with short hair to see how she'd look in it, inspired by the recent debut of the RWBY vol 7 Poster. Every time they change their designs around I wanna change my ocs's designs around too LMFAO To me, of team AURA (Arrosa, Umbra, River, and Ami) Ami was the most likely to have short(er) hair in my head, so I doodled it. I'm half and half on it? I like it better than her current hair but that's also because I drew her ref back in 2016 and looks bad lol. https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Amitolah-602174140 2. OOF This is a quite a bit into the future of AURA+ (the metaphorical comic/ask blog with my RWBY ocs) so its spoilers and I'm trying as hard as I can not to spoil anymore than I already have so I gotta be quiet, lol. Kieran bbyyyyy whAT HAPPENED I mean I KNOW BUT BBY https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Kieran-637420325 3. Speaking of RWBY and the Volume 7 poster, Blake has short hair! I LOVE it! I wanted to doodle it but had a hard time, but made myself finish it cuz I didn't feel like trying to think of something else to draw lol. So, I don't like it but I don't necessarily hate it either. 4. My little sister and I were having fun with that ol pokefusion webpage and I saved this horrible monstrocity. It's a fusion of a Slowbro and a Nidoran Male and I just HAD to draw it lol I have more saved, but IDK if I wanna draw them (Fun fact, this is how I ended up making/figuring out my Pokesona, which is a Ninetales and Cubone/Marowak fusion.) https://pokemon.alexonsager.net/80/32 5 and 6 are related to each other, lol. 5 has a young Amaya with her dad, Vasco. I recently adopted Vasco from imartist22:devimartist22:! After some thought I've decided he is a vampire bat pony and is kinda big. like Big mac-ish big. He tries to get bigger animals (andofcourseafewwillingorkinkyparticipants) that won't just straight up die after he gets enough blood to eat. I'm stuck between having him be with a loving partner and having him be a bit of a prick that got a mare pregnant and just had Amaya randomly dropped off at his doorstep one day LMFAO. Loving family or fuckboi turned into good dad... HMM. In this image I imagine that Vasco liked to sit under trees a lot to relax, and he brought Amaya with him to do so around the time she was dropped off at his place. he happened to be sitting under an apple tree when one of the apples fell, startling poor little Amaya but kicking her insticts into gear. This apple must pay for it's delicious looking crimes and Vasco is 100 percent amused and isn't gonna stop her. Amaya's a Fruit bat pony (thanks to her mom's genes), and her heckin huge canines make it hard for her to feed on anything besides mushy/old fruit usually, but of course, it didn't stop little Amaya from trying. 6 is an illustration that takes place mere moments after 5. she pounced the apple, trying to suck the sweet juices out of it. Vasco has to take it away from her and juice/mush it lol You can see Vasco here: https://toyhou.se/2561820.vasco AND you can see more pics of Amaya here, as she's a rather old oc I've had for a while now: https://toyhou.se/628481.amaya OLD ART WARNING OOF https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Ze-Bat-Poneh-525079939 https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Amaya-bat-pone-535836955 https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Getting-Used-To-Things-597913100 https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Static-623480499 That's all I really have for now I think, so yeah lol. Enjoy <3 A special thanks and shout out to these lovely people for supporting me on Patreon: -TBA If you like what I do on here, please consider supporting me on Patreon as well as the other websites I'm on, as well as commissioning me or donating! Every little bit you can do to help directly supports me. Patreon Perks include: - Early Access to all my works. -Access to WIPS and a special shout out on every post I make. - Being tagged whenever I post a new adoptable/auction! - Drawings of your choice linked to how much you contribute! - Getting up to a 70 percent discount on your next commission from me! - Early notifications to when my commissions are opening and the ability to reserve a slot! The websites I'm most active on are Deviantart and Tumblr, so please message me there if you have any inquiries!! Commission Information:https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic/art/Commission-Information-OPEN-797509905 Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Musicalmedic DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/musical-medic Furaffinity: https://furaffinity.net/user/musicalmedic/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/Musical_mediic Tumblr: https://Musical-mediic.tumblr.com

Posted using PostyBirb

[whatakilljoy]

Ponies!

So from now on my pony art will be posted HERE!

I also have my Requests open! If you follow the guide over there you can have a nicely drawn poneh of your own.

[flutterblunt]

Thwnk u for agreeing fluttershy is autistic

[pollylynn]

Billet Doux, Chapter 4—A Season Two Caskett WIP

Title: Billet Doux, Chapter 4 WC: 1100

She gets to tell the full story on day four. “Gets to.” It’s her post-incident interview at last, bright and early on a Monday morning, and it’s fine. The members of the team are sympathetic, that’s clear, but it doesn’t mean they don’t put her through her paces. They take her through the story from front to back and back to front again, and she tells it, more or less the same way each time—Jacky Coonan to the girl, the girl to the drugs, the drugs to Johnny Vong, and Johnny Vong to Dick Coonan and the non-existent Rathborne. 

She tells that story, because her cop’s mind can’t tell it any other way. But she’s not a cop here. Sympathetic or no, as far as the investigative team is concerned—a seasoned homicide detective from another precinct and a couple of suits from Internal Affairs—she’s a suspect, and the story that pieces one lead together with the next is not the one they want. It’s not the one that will clear the shooting, and that’s what she’s here for.  

She takes a breath and tells the story they need to hear, the one with details her cop’s mind hasn’t already filtered out as irrelevant. She thinks it will be hard. She thinks for a drowning moment of Castle and the details that land thick on the page. She thinks for a drowning moment that she can’t do this, but her memory offers them up—the most curious details—though out of sequence. 

Her first memory is blood, but not the kind she’s expecting. Her gaze falls, fleetingly, to her own thighs. She’s not wearing the jeans, of course. She’s wearing the nicest wool trousers she owns, and anyway, the blood she’s thinking of is the dark maroon spreading across Coonan’s upper lip from when Castle’s head had slammed with bone-crunching force into his nose. Her memory lingers on the different shade of red it seemed to be—dark right away in contrast to the bright crimson that pumped endlessly between her fingers. 

Next, memory rewinds to the money—her insane break room promise to pay him back and his Negative, Ghost Rider. She presses her lips together and keeps that detail to herself. She moves on to Dick Coonan’s verbal slip—her killer—then leaps ahead to her own plea to the Captain—I need him alive. Before it can sound like a plea—like something calculated to argue for the purity of her her intentions, memory skips backward again to the ballpoint pen in Dick Coonan’s hand in the moment before he went for the uniform’s gun. 

She remembers, maybe for the first time, that he had slipped on it—Coonan had. The new detail deals a blow to her composure, and she sees one of the IA guys sit up straighter, bounce the cap of his own ballpoint on a yellow legal pad as she recalls that just for a second before he grabbed Castle and jammed the Glock into his ribs, the cheap plastic barrel of the pen had rolled right under Coonan’s shoe, and he’d slipped. She hears herself faithfully relating such a silly detail. She hears herself wondering aloud if she’d missed something in that second, wondering if that had been her opportunity to act. 

They don’t have an answer for her. It’s their job not to have an answer for her. Their job is simply to assemble the facts from interview, from physical evidence—to determine whether, according to departmental guidelines, she was justified in taking a man’s life. It’s not their job to tell her whether or not she missed the moment that might have changed everything. 

Things wrap up not long after. There are no promises, of course, but the sympathetic vibe runs strong through the round of handshakes she exchanges with each of them. She emerges from the room’s fluorescent lights, from the building itself, into another brittle and brilliant January morning. 

She’s not the first to text him on day four. He’d been up brighter and earlier than her meeting  to lob more obscure poetic forms her way, to say nothing of his list of suggested chores to help her while away the days. He hadn’t wished her luck or mentioned the interview at all. He hadn’t asked any of the million questions he must have about the whole process. 

And he hasn’t pinged her with a Things go okay? or anything else. She feels hollow about it for a moment. She feels irrationally abandoned, not just by him, but by everyone—Montgomery, Lanie, the boys.   

But the cold shakes her, then. The wind howls its way under her coat collar and New York roars around her. The city reminds her that here, she’s as alone as she does or does not want to be. She strips off one glove, yelping as January takes another bite. A mook striding by with a pair of city coveralls pulled on over his winter gear spares her a sympathetic look. 

How’s your head? She manages to jounce out on the move. She’s descending into the subway as she sends it. She’s practically cheek to cheek with half a dozen bundled up strangers who have barely made it inside with her before the doors close.  There’s literally no room to move enough to check the phone when she feels it vibrate. 

Indestructible. Thanks for asking. 

She reads the reply as she climbs the stairs once the train belches her out at her station. She imagines a different world where Coonan had lived and they’d broken him like they broke Johnny Vong. She imagines Castle making much of his battle scars. She emerges into the cold again and squints down at the message awaiting her reply.

Do you remember the pen? She leans against the outside of a bus shelter with her left glove stripped off this time. Coonan slipped on it. 

The letters of the name are a shock as painful as sudden, bright sun—as sudden, bitter wind. She waits for his reply, right there in the cold. It’s a stupid thing to punish herself over. But she waits. 

Did he? Must have been too busy being the idiot who got grabbed to notice. 

Not an idiot, she fires back. 

He replies with an orphan ellipsis. She laughs loud enough to turn the heads of seasoned bus riders who usually can’t be bothered to look up for anything less than an alien invasion. 

An idiot, definitely, just not in this instance. 

Better. Thanks for noticing. Signed—An idiot.   A/N: Brain Poneh really wanted to know what happened to that pen. There’s your glimpse into Brain Poneh’s darkest, most boring corners for today. 

[pollylynn]

Title: Redacted

Rating: T

WC: ~2500 Summary: “I’m taking it back.” A/N: Ok. This is complicated. I previously published the first 800 words of this as a chapter of "Smithereens," which was just fragments I had sitting around when the news of cancellation came down. That part is a tag for "Still" (5 x 22). I had the next 800 or so words written, but I knew that I wanted it to be part of a something longer. So I'm including those first 800 words (so they'll be familiar if you read Smithereens) plus the finished second leg. This is a slightly AU version of the end of Watershed (5 x 24) and beginning of Valkyrie (6 x 01). To make matters worse, this second leg employs a concept that I kind of already used in "Best in Show" (which is Chapter 6 of this story), because although the idea is one Brain!Poneh very stubbornly holds on to, I never thought I'd finish this story, so I squandered it. (I may have mentioned I have Watershed issues . . .) Tomorrow, I'll post the rest as NaFicWriMo 18, because otherwise the damned thing is way too long.