#sooty-planed

[tojifm]

- just enough (m.) -> g. satoru

*𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing: gojo/reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖"words": 1k ‧₊˚contains: orgasms, overstimulation (m), masturbation (f, m), bondage (not graphic), whiny gojo, vibrators, a choppy plot, and honestly pure smut. ‧₊˚

i. | ii.*

Gojo is pretty. Like really pretty. 

Yes, you cannot believe you are saying this but his sooty white lashes fluttering against his red cheeks, hips convulsing into your hand, he looked like a vice. 

“If you had been nicer to me…” you throw your words back at him, feigning sympathy. 

After wiping out the curse you both had initially headed out to do, your return was leisurely, laid out comfortably in the back seat of Ijichi’s car, too tired to try anything. 

That didn’t mean you had forgotten. 

“C’mon,” his hands pulled taut against the ropes, the bed frame creaking, and although the echo made you nervous, you managed a giggle.

“No way.”

Gojo’s needy whines echoed in the room and the sound only seemed to spur you on, glad that you were in the privacy of his flat instead of the office on campus. 

“C’mon, just give it to me!” His cock is fattened up, looking red and sore from overstimulation, bulging out of the vibrating cock ring, and you are sure if you don’t stop soon, you might unleash a new monster. 

You were still fully clothed, sitting on your knees, mattress dipping to accommodate your weight, occasionally fisting his cock, only to pull away when he seemed to reach his peak.

“I thought you were stronger than this,” you jeered and Gojo’s blue eyes flashed. His jaw clenched, the skin along his throat and collarbones dipped. 

“You challenging me?”

There’s cum painting the flat planes of his stomach from before which became misty from inattention. You find it bizarre, the insolence he has managed to upkeep despite being so vulnerable. 

“Of course not.”

He had swam through his orgasms, a manic smile gracing his mouth followed by soft groans before he’d look at you for more. 

You were not surprised. He’d always been a little sadistic. His chest heaved and his mouth pouted before another shudder ripped through him at the click of your remote. You grinned, ankle discreetly massaging against the spot that was becoming wetter by the minute. “Fuckin’ hell, Gojo. Are you gonna cum again?”

He doesn’t answer but his cheeks puff, eyes fluttering shut, and you knew all too well to ignore the sign. The hum of the ring stopped. 

Gojo grunted. “No, no, no, no-“ He didn’t know what he was asking for, eyes glassy and blown, he just wanted this to be over. 

“What’s the problem?” You inquired, eyes wide.  You were rocking against your foot, consumed by the friction. You licked the corner of your mouth. “Y-you want something?”

He was so pretty, laid out for you to control. 

His body flailed, desperate to orgasm just once more. He’d lost count of how many times you had robbed him of the privilege, driving him until he was oozing but not combusting. 

“Are you trying to get your ass torn apart?” His jaw was clenched, muscles standing to attention, but it wasn't from anger. No, it was from restraint.

The ridge of the bone rolled against your clit and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. In your haze, you failed to notice the flash of renewed lust across Gojo's face. His eyes widened, nostrils flared.

“No way.” 

You huffed, rocking harder. 

“Are you fucking yourself right now?”

“No,” you protested weakly. 

Gojo didn’t mean to sound angry, but he did. “Are you serious?” 

You were breathless, the throb between your legs becoming too much to bear. You raised your skirt, Gojo’s breath rattled, and slipped your hand down, tracing the edge of your panties. 

“Hey!” His complaint was half-hearted, feeling ferality lick the edge of his consciousness. “Stop touching yourself.” Once again, his legs thrashed and arms pulled against the restraints, wondering when you had learned all this. 

“Gojo,” you keened in response, fingers rolling the bundle of nerves, falling forward against his chest. 

“Untie me. C’mon. I wanna cum too.”  

Your hand slipped past the barrier and rubbed your fingers against your lips, coating them before you plunged your middle finger into yourself, breathing out in relief at the ease with which you began to pleasure yourself. Your heated breath brushed against his pink nipple. 

He watched, cock standing rigid. He hated this. He wanted nothing more than to stuff your mouth, pound into it, and coax your throat open until it was leaking nothing but sweet apologies and his ropey cum. “You fucking bitch,” he gritted. 

You felt tendrils of pleasure caress your nerves until your body was wracking and shaking against him. Mouth wrapping around his nipple, rocking against your hand, dragging out the aftermath. 

Gojo’s back bent at the sensation. “W-what are you- hah- s-stop that!” 

Flushed and worn out, you grinned, his skin was cold and your tongue just sizzled kissing it. You find yourself tracing a path, nuzzling into the column of his neck, kissing and sucking until he was groaning.  A string of drool followed your mouth, when you leaned back, admiring the purple bruises you had left behind. 

“So pretty.” 

“I’ll make you regret this,” he promised, an untamed smile on his mouth. The blue of his eyes glowed against the contrasting white of his hair that was matted against his forehead from the sweat. 

You laughed, trying to maintain the illusion of dominance you had fed him. “No, you won’t.”

His skin was buzzing with pleasure so when the click of the remote resounds, it took him a moment to process what was happening.

The room fell silent, the kind of silence you hear before the thunder cracks down and lights farms on fire. When it registers, inside Gojo’s racing mind, a fresh gush of precum shoots out of his slit that you are quick to occupy your hands with. 

“Fuck, I swear-“

You squeezed his cock, dragging out a low moan from the man’s throat. “You like this?”

“Go t-to hell.”

You pretended to pout, squeezing harder, watching the translucent liquid dribble out and onto your hand. “But I want to give you something.” Your other hand flicked the button on the remote control. The cock ring hummed at the new speed and Gojo’s spine arched and twisted, like he was just about to die. 

“Come on,” You cooed, “Come one, you fucking slut. Give it to me.”

With your resounding words, lips wrapping around the leaking swollen head, licking across the slit, you kiss the top of his cock. 

That’s all it takes for an earthquake, an avalanche, a tsunami to roll through his body, shivering and bucking, chasing the pulses of his orgasm, feeling the ropes loosen unbeknownst to you. He choked on his breath, flooding your mouth.

as beyonce once said, if you like it than you shoulda put a ring on it

[leaf-in-a-boot]

Crowley as Nebulas part 6: Snake on a Galactic Plane!!

again, i’m aware, not technically a nebula but i saw this on the James Webb telescope website and HAD to

anyway if anyone’s interested, this is what the Spitzer website has to say about it:

“The snake-like object is actually the core of a thick, sooty cloud large enough to swallow dozens of solar systems. In fact, astronomers say its "belly" may be harboring beastly stars in the process of forming.”

how cool is that

anyway enjoy :]

[transmurderbug]

🐛 Weekly Tag Wednesday! 🐛

Thank you for the tags, Kat @mybrainismelted, Kaka @stocious, Evie @energievie, Comet @spacerockwriting, Nosho @creepkinginc, Jess @jrooc and Alice @spookygingerr! So many people! 🥰💙

Weekly Tag Wednesday - Firsts!

Name: Sky 🪲🪨

Age: Nosho divided by zero.

First Pet? My family's German Shepherd named Döme. The first pet that was mine was a guinea pig. His name was Kormos (smoky/sooty).

First Word? As if my mother remembers 😂 All I know is that my father wanted it to be dezoxiribonukleinsav (DNA, but in Hungarian).

First Celebrity Crush? 🤷

First IRL Crush? One of these days I'll need a scientific rundown of what that's supposed to feel like. I never had one, I guess?

First kiss? Sorry, this one is a skip for me. Blah.

First Car? Issss the one I still have! A 2009 Renault Clio Grandtour. My pookie (yes I am THAT person).

First apartment/house/dorm/whatever away from your parents? A small ass apartment I half lived in with someone.

First time on a plane? A family vacation when I was around... 5. It was fun! I've been totally in love with flying ever since.

First cellphone? A "hand me down" from my mother, an old... Nokia? If I remember correctly. Your typical "you're going to school and coming home on your own, here, in case you need it".

First concert? I don't remember... I'm pretty sure some kind of a rock concert though. I was raised on good music. The first one that I excitedly got tickets for on my own was when I was 15, one of my favorite bands was celebrating a birthday.

First foreign country you visited? I think it was Austria when I was a few months old!

First sport you ever played? Athletics from basically the day I could walk. Nothing specific at first, but I ended up being a good jumper and sprinter later. My true calling was probably discus/javelin/hammer, anything you can throw.

First career aspiration? It was constantly changing, but the focus point was always animals.

And finally… tell me about the first time you wrote/drew/created/whatever something that made you think "wow" That's a tough one... maybe back when I was doing graphics extracurricular in school and we designed some background set for theatre, more specifically for an Oz play. The yellow brick road I worked on turned out pretty cool! I used to write poems too, some weren't too horrid 👀

Tagging, because I'm on time! Voluntary, as always, if you wanna pass, here, have this apple: 🍏 @ian-galagher @transmickey @deathclassic @gallapiech @look-i-love-u @suzy-queued @mickeysgaymom @sam-loves-seb @heymrspatel @dynamic-power @blue-disco-lights @thepupperino @metalheadmickey @transsexual-dandelions @sgtmickeyslaughter @ms-moonlight-inn @palepinkgoat @krysmiss @callivich @rayrayor @francesrose3 @lee-ow aaaand anyone else my scrambled brain is forgetting.

[usafphantom2]

Tap photos to enlarge ☝️

flock of Blackbirds began flying at 85,000 ft. over the Caribbean last week, their sooty titanium skins glowing cherry red from air friction as they hit top speeds in excess of 2,000 m.p.h. The planes were Lockheed's needle-nosed SR-71s on strategic reconnaissance missions that President Carter has ordered to monitor Soviet military activity in Cuba.

If any aircraft can determine the combat capability of the Soviet brigade on the island, it is the SR-71—the fastest, highest-flying and most elusive manned aircraft in existence. So fast does the sophisticated spy plane move that when a pilot starts a 180° turn over Cuba, he completes it halfway to Bermuda. By emitting ECM, or electronic countermeasure radio frequency signals, the Blackbird can efface its image from watching radar screens.

Stationed primarily at Beale Air Force Base in California, the SR-71s last flew over Cuba in November 1978 to help determine whether Havana's Soviet-supplied MiG-23 fighters had a nuclear capability. The answer: no. U.S. strategic satellites are also used for surveillance. But when their vision is obscured by cloud cover, the job is given to SR-71s, which have cloud-penetrating infrared sensors and cameras that can take pictures at a scanning rate of 100,000 sq. mi. per hr., making it possible to monitor military targets anywhere in the world.

Most important are the Blackbird's ELINT—electronic intelligence-gathering functions that are also known as "ferreting." SR-71s can detect hidden objectives by interpreting electronic signals at extremely high altitudes. In addition, Blackbirds carry a long-range, side-looking radar (SLAR) that can spy deep into foreign countries without actually crossing their frontiers.

Moscow has been so concerned about the effectiveness of the SR-71s that it has repeatedly made attempts to shoot the planes down over Eastern Europe, North Korea and the Middle East with surface-to-air missiles. They have never made a single kill, but that could change. ( speculating that the SA-5 could change things but it did not.)

Entering the Soviet arms inventory is a new SAM called Gammon that the U.S. Air Force estimates has the capability of catching up with an SR-71. A major concern of U.S. defense authorities: if the Gammon is shipped to Havana, it could be bye-bye, Blackbird, over Cuba.

It could be but it never happened. Although the SR 71 was shot at many times no one was able to lock on and deliver The SR’s flew higher and faster than the Soviet missiles could go. SR-71s were a major contributor to winning the Cold War.

Paraphrased by Linda Sheffield Miller

Timetime magazine article October 1979

#SR-71

#Blackbirds

@Habubrats71 via X

[sootygifs]

The Sooty Show - "Cars, Trains, Boats and Planes"

[hekateinhell]

Louis/ Lestat/ Armand: “ I want to go home.” 

for the five sentences writing meme!

in my heart this takes place shortly post-BC ♥

It's nonsensical, Lestat knows this.

He was home.

Home at Auvergne, home in this castle with its stone walls. And yet the thought sprung unbidden into his mind with all the urgency and anguish of a lost child: "I want to go home..." Skittering like an insect in his skull, knocking the breath out of him, almost causing him to shatter in the pen gripped tightly in his hand. The instinct to flee from the intensity of emotion making every muscle in his body tense in expectation of an imaginary blow.

There's something though, some nagging and grudgingly formed sentiment of self-preservation that's guiding him now, urging him to his senses to hone in on the two hearts in the entire castle that mean the most to him.

His refuge, the two beings whom Lestat's hurt the most in his long immortal life and who have hurt him back just as much. The two who have loved him the most over the past two hundred years and whom Lestat has loved every bit in return.

It's a hypnotic sound, galvanizing him right out of his chair and down the corridors—a man in a trance, Sleeping Beauty to the spindle—the dual heartbeats of Louis and Armand pulsating in perfect sync and in close proximity.

He finds them in Louis's rooms, of course. Utterly nude and tucked up into a semblance of mortal slumber in the ornate four-post bed. Lilies in a vase on the bedside table lending a heady perfume to this lovers' tableau.

Lestat bit his lip.

Armand had always been more successful at getting Louis to shed his maddening façade of morality and decorum. But that was Armand's way, wasn't it? The expert seductor.

You're thinking much too loudly, Armand's soft telepathic voice cut through the turmoil in Lestat's weary head.

Am I, imp? there's no bite to it, the events of the past couple weeks having left Lestat feeling thoroughly declawed.

Join us, Lestat. The only thing stopping you is you. Armand batting his sooty lashes up at him from his prone position, a greedy tease.

Auburn hair splayed out over Louis's narrow chest, pale apple cheek pressing onto the dark hair there, bare thigh slung casually over Louis's hip, delicate fingers still clinging to inky curls at the nape of Louis's neck.

And Louis! How exquisitely did his beauty shine with a dark flush of blood highlighting the dramatic planes of his aristocratic face, long lashes casting shadows over angular cheekbones as he dreamt mortal dreams.

An electrifying thrill jolts through Lestat when he recognizes the source of the blood in him, making the connection between Armand's pallid little face and Louis's seemingly living one, blissed in repose.

His throat suddenly burning with the need to taste Louis and Armand as one, as if Lestat's never had a drink in his life. Hunger almost too much to bear because it's really a combination of the three of them that he's smelling: his powerful blood in Louis's veins now melded with Armand's to create the most intoxicating fusion.

He sees himself in Armand's mind as he crawls towards them on all fours like a starving panther, something feral and desperate. Pupils blown wide, mouth open and fangs peeking out in anticipation, delirious with indecision as to which one he will claim first, craving the fervent delight of the conquer.

Lestat's only thought, only idea, only discernable desire is to ravage them, devour them whole, make for Louis and Armand a home inside of himself so that he may never feel homesick again.

[sondersketches]

Sonder Sketches (June 17, 2024), Prompt: Studio

Reference:

The first image is a digital sketch/painting done using an oil paint brush and a watercolor paint brush. It was drawn in the free version of the Tayasui Sketches app on Android with a generic phone stylus, for a prompt from the Sketch a Day app/site that provides daily drawing prompts and has a largely positive community.

Since I'd already drawn someone doing art in their drawing space for the "stroke" prompt, and this prompt was "studio," I decided to follow the example of some other Sketch a Day artists and draw fanart for an animation studio I like. Looking at others making Studio Ghibli art, I knew not a lot of my favorite characters could fit my style or look right with my beginner level of skill/knowledge. I wanted to keep my character(s) simple and my background even more minimal, so I chose the lovable soot sprites who always made me happy and inspired me to worldbuild when I would see them appear in "Spirited Away" over my many rewatches. I used low opacity oil brush and watercolor brush digital paints for the main body to give a "fuzzy" and "sooty" look, then used the oil brush at full opacity to fill in an amount of lineart that felt like it wouldn't interfere with those visual textures and would more or less match the reference. I couldn't make the star candy three dimensional, the eyes grew bigger than I'd planned, and there wasn't enough space on the canvas to draw .ore than five total. It's also not clear if they're all on the same plane, in the same foreground, or where they're spaced in relation to each other.

Even with these issues and mismatches from the reference, these soot sprites turned out cute and everyone I've showed them to since drawing them has recognized what I was referencing. I like their energetic expressiveness, and I think my style lends well to those traits. I also like these unusual structure and lack of logical organic design, which I think are also clear in my version. Most of all, I like the little sounds they make and how they give the impression of sentient squeaky toys. I think mine convey that, too.

Overall, it's not the cleanest or most high-level fanart but it does what I want it to do and I like it a lot. It was a fun piece to work on and it's fun for me to look back at, too. I'm glad Sketch a Day did this prompt and I got to try out fanart. I don't do that often, if at all.

[cagemasterfantasy]

Fire Genasi Rankings and Features (5e)

Guide

1=do not play this class as this race

2=can play but not recommended

3=decent choice

4=perfect

Elemental Evil Companion's Guide and Princes of the Apocalypse

Those who think of other planes at all consider them remote, distant realms, but planar influence can be felt throughout the world. It sometimes manifests in beings who, through an accident of birth, carry the power of the planes in their blood. The genasi are one such people, the offspring of genies and mortals.

As a fire genasi, you have inherited the volatile mood and keen mind of the efreet. You tend toward impatience and making snap judgments. Rather than hide your distinctive appearance, you exult in it.

Nearly all fire genasi are feverishly hot as if burning inside, an impression reinforced by flaming red, coal- black, or ash-gray skin tones. The more human-looking have fiery red hair that writhes under extreme emotion, while more exotic specimens sport actual flames dancing on their heads. Fire genasi voices might sound like crackling flames, and their eyes flare when angered. Some are accompanied by the faint scent of brimstone.

Ability Score Increase. Your Constitution score increases by 2, and your Intelligence score increases by 1.

Age. Genasi mature at about the same rate as humans and reach adulthood in their late teens. They live somewhat longer than humans do, up to 120 years.

Alignment. Independent and self-reliant, genasi tend toward a neutral alignment.

Size. Genasi are as varied as their mortal parents but are generally built like humans, standing anywhere from 5 feet to over 6 feet tall. Your size is Medium.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet.

Darkvision. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. Your ties to the Elemental Plane of Fire make your darkvision unusual: everything you see in darkness is in a shade of red.

Fire Resistance. You have resistance to fire damage.

Reach to the Blaze. You know the Produce Flame cantrip. Once you reach 3rd level, you can cast the Burning Hands spell once with this trait as a 1st-level spell, and you regain the ability to cast it this way when you finish a long rest. Constitution is your spellcasting ability for these spells.

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and Primordial. Primordial is a guttural language, filled with harsh syllables and hard consonants.

Mordenkainen Presents: Monsters of the Multiverse

Tracing their ancestry to the genies of the Elemental Planes, each genasi can tap into the power of one of the elements. Air, earth, fire, and water — these are the four pillars of the Material Plane and the four types of genasi. Some genasi are direct descendants of a genie, while others were born to non-genasi parents who lived near a place suffused by a genie’s magic.

A typical genasi has a life span of 120 years

Descended from efreet, the genies of the Elemental Plane of Fire, fire genasi channel the flamboyant and often destructive nature of flame. They show their heritage in their skin tones, which can range from deep charcoal to shades of red and orange. Some bear skin tones common to humanity but with fiery marks, such as slowly swirling lights under their skin that resemble embers or glowing red lines tracing over their bodies like cracks. Fire genasi hair can resemble threads of fire or sooty smoke.

Ability Score Increase. When determining your character’s ability scores, increase one score by 2 and increase a different score by 1, or increase three different scores by 1. You can't raise any of your scores above 20.

Creature Type. You are a Humanoid.

Size. You are Medium or Small. You choose the size when you select this race.

Speed. Your walking speed is 30 feet.

Darkvision. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light and in darkness as if it were dim light. You discern colors in that darkness only as shades of gray.

Fire Resistance. You have resistance to fire damage.

Reach to the Blaze. You know the Produce Flame cantrip. Starting at 3rd level, you can cast the Burning Hands spell with this trait. Starting at 5th level, you can also cast the Flame Blade spell with this trait, without requiring a material component. Once you cast Burning Hands or Flame Blade with this trait, you can’t cast that spell with it again until you finish a long rest. You can also cast either of those spells using any spell slots you have of the appropriate level.

Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma is your spellcasting ability for these spells when you cast them with this trait (choose when you select this race).

Languages. Your character can speak, read, and write Common and one other language that you and your DM agree is appropriate for the character. The Player’s Handbook offers a list of languages to choose from. The DM is free to modify that list for a campaign.

Artificer 2 Artificers can get Fire resistance and Darkvision from spells and infusions Fire Bolt is better than Produce Flame and Artificers can already cast Burning Hands. There’s nothing new here. Darkvision and Fire resistance are great but at that point play a Tiefling. Knowing Burning Hands for free is not good enough

Barbarian 2 Elemental Evil Fire Genasi was a better option because Barbarians need decent Constitution so the innate spellcasting was at least vaguely useful. You won’t be able to use the new spellcasting to any great effect so the only traits you benefit from are Darkvision and Fire resistance

Bard 4 Bards have essentially no spell attacks and while Vicious Mockery is a spectacular offensive option Produce Flame does twice as much damage and sometimes that’s all you need. Burning Hands provides helpful short-range AOE damage and while there are some trade-offs between the 2 Burning Hands may suffice in place of Shatter. Darkvision makes it easier to sneak around in the dark and Fire resistance is constently helpful. Fire Genasi doesn’t support any specific play style or build but it’s a good basis for almost any Bard

Cleric 2 Clerics don’t get Produce Flame and most don’t get Burning Hands. There’s very little to gain here

Druid 3 Druids already get Produce Flame. Most of them don’t get Burning Hands that on its own isn’t much. If you really want Burning Hands play Circle of Wildfire. Circle of Wildfire certainly seems like a fun theme for a Fire Genasi but there’s very little there mechanically which would make you better than a Tiefling

Fighter 2 the most obvious combination is Eldritch Knight because no other Fighter subclass gets spell slots. Even then the spells aren’t good options

Monk 2 Produce Flame can give you a passable range attack option but throwing darts will almost certainly be more effective

Paladin 3 Fire Genasi’s best martial option. Paladins have few good ranged options so Produce Flame can be helpful when you really need to attack at range. Paladins also struggle at handling crowds so Burning Hands is occasionally helpful

Ranger 3 Ranger’s damage boost options don’t work with spell attacks so Produce Flame is minimally useful. Burning Hands is decent at short range and it certainly beats Ranger’s other AOE damage options. Darkvision is great for sneaking around in the dark and Fire resistance is always good

Rogue 2 Rogues are too dependent on weapon attacks for most of Fire Genasi’s traits to be meaningful. Play a Tiefling

Sorcerer 2 the extra spells aren’t good enough to justify your race. Basically any other race with innate spellcasting will be more impactful. Play Tiefling if you’re dead set on having Darkvision and Fire resistance

Warlock 2 same as Sorcerer

Wizard 2 Wizard can replace everything that Fire Genasi does that’s worth having

[maegalkarven]

I'm struggling to turn this piece into full thing, so here's the snippet.

cambion!June(Durge) and Gortash meet for the first time, at the HoH.

The party is…lame. This is a really rude and ungrateful thing to say, considering he had to beg, bargain and manipulate his way into being allowed out of the vault and into the other layer of Hell altogether.

Why uncle Raphael even bothers to live in this weird parody of a castle is a wonder, and in Avernus of all places. Couldn’t find a layer of Hell higher than that? Clearly not.

Still, the house isn’t that bad; it is flying by some means unknown, and has a great view out of the windows and many balconies; something Juniper’s vault lacks.

“A great view, isn’t it?” and speak of the devil. Well, the cambion. Uncle Raphael walks into the balcony, a glass of something looking like wine but distinctly different in hand. “Don’t suppose you have seen the Blood War before, have you?”

“Is that why you chose Avernus of all places?” June asks, but can’t help to look down at the battle. It is a marvelous view, a true chaos of war at its very glory; different kinds of devils and demons attacking each other and trying to overpower the foe.

June has always admired the demons for their chaotic nature, not what he’d tell his relatives of that. Must be the godspawn blood speaking in him, the blood of a God of Murder.

June wonders what it’s like to be Bhaal’s son, what it’s like to walk a god among men and leave a trail of blood and viscera behind. To be free in your actions, to roam the streets of mortal men like the nightmare came from the Outer Planes.

To live, not waste away inside one of the numerous vaults of the Lord of the Eighth.

“Juniper,” his uncle calls out rather impatiently. “I asked you a question.”

“No, I suppose I haven’t,” he stares down as a massive blast of magic tears through the ranks, breaking bones and tearing flesh. Oh how he wants to jump down to them, to join, to let his hands drown in the blood of-

“Juniper.”

“I am listening,” his tail twitches in irritation, his wings flutter.

Whose of his grandfather’s oldest servants and allies claim he looks just like Mephistopheles did back in the old days, when he had not yet claimed the more classical look of the devil, full of red and fire. They say his grayish-blue skin are akin to his mother’s, what his wings, horns and claws are the same deep shade of blue of grandfather, what the sooty black scales are nothing but perfection. Juniper doesn’t particularly care it it’s the truth or not, he is so rarely out of his confinement any interaction feels like a breath of fresh air.

More often than not he, a proud son of two powerful beings, is reduced to nothing but another treasure in Mephisto’s vault. Just another pretty magical curiosity, not a living being. Not achdevil’s kin.

“I don’t think you do,” Raphael complains. He sports the look eerily alike to Mephistopheles’ current visage: same red of skin, same horns, same wings, and same draping cape. He is clearly compensating for something.

“No, I truly do,” June smiles weakly. “It’s just you rarely have something interesting to say. I wonder if it was even worth leaving the vault at all,” he wrinkles his nose. “At least there I have every magic tome my heart desires for consumption, every secret of the universe laid bare before me.”

He is lying, of course, but not too much. He is allowed to study a generous amount of books out of his grandfather’s endless library, and is allowed to conduct his own experiments. If anything, it’s even praised.

His uncle huffs. “Very clever,” he rolls his eyes. “I dare to say I am the better conversationalist than you are, my dear bloodthirsty kin.”

“I haven’t killed anyone yet, have I?”

“But you want to, don’t you? I can feel it boiling under the surface of the flesh, blood hot as hellfire, lower impulses raised-“

“Are you trying to provoke me into something?” June raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t buy into the servants’ tales of me going into rampages and killing lesser devils left and right, did you?”

Raphael studies him.

“Are those lies?”

“Yes.”

No. Bhaal has been insistent in his attempts to claim his vile blood of late, the result of it shown in the bloody tapestries hung around the Mephistar. If grandfather was displeased, he did not show it. His uncle smiles.

“I think you’re lying, my dear one,” he cups June’s cheek gently. “I think you’re sick and tired of playing Mephistopheles’ little pet. I think,” he steps closer. “You want to be let out.”

June takes a step away, his back hitting the railing. Below the war rages, in all its blood, fire and glory. Below him devils and demons alike live and die for something what’s worth living and dying for.

Raphael corners him by the railing.

“My sweet poor Juniper,” he hums. “Father really doesn’t pay you attention you deserve. You truly are a marvel, the last Bhaalspawn alive.”

That jerks June up.

“The last one?” he can’t help but take the bait. “But I thought the Hero-“

His uncle smiles like the cat that just got the mouse.

“The hero is dead, along with their last remaining kin,” he tilts his head to the side. “You’re the only child unlucky god of murder still retains. And just far enough away to be out of his grasp,” he toots. “I wonder if you feel it in your blood, your unholy calling-“

“My unholy calling is here,” June argues. “In Hells, in Mephistar. I am the grandchild of-“

“Of the archduke of Cania, I know,” Raphael interrupts. “But does it matter? Does he even care?”

At that the young fiend bristles. Of course grandfather cares; he took him in, raised him in his very own Citadel, gave him the education- -and locked him in a vault.

“And does he care about you?” he retorts. “At least I was created with some thought given, some intent behind. And you? Just a single slip of Arcduke’s, nothing more.” Raphael presses him harder into the railing.

“Careful,” he smiles, all teeth and promise of the pain to come. “I’d hate to hurt your delicate little wings; they haven’t seen enough flight, have they? Don’t think they’ll hold your weight all the way down.”

“Uncle,” June tilts his head to the side. “Are you threatening me?” he feigns ignorance. “Why? Did I say something to upset you, hit some chord perhaps? If so, I do apologize. Insulting the host in his own house was not my intention; especially the one is so…sensitive.”

'The sensitive host' sneers and almost pushes him off the balcony, but a new voice clears the throat. Raphael and June turn around to peer at the young man standing at the threshold.

[charlesandmartine]

Wednesday 24th April 2024

Our hotel was still asleep as we fumbled our way out of unfamiliar locked doors. The cases rumbled noisily past the swimming pool and the security guard mysteriously appeared out of the darkness, grabbed a suitcase and thrust a couple of ham bagels in a carrier bag our way. By way of saying goodbye he operated the big security gate to allow us to drive out into the night. It was still stupid o'clock as we drove the empty streets the 3kms or so to the airport passing a shantie town with yesterday's fires still burning and on to the Avis drop off point. Now pedestrians again we made the short walk into departures. They were relatively pleasant at this time of the morning. The check-in man almost smiled but I think it was wind. I had a conversation with the man at the scanner. Well it was a bit like talking to Sooty; I could see his lips move but I couldn't actually hear anything. Turns out when he virtually whispered in my ear he was enquiring where we were off to and wished us a pleasant journey!! Man in the airport!!! Never come across anyone pleasant before! I squeeked back in 'Sweep' that we from England and on our way to Kasane. He nodded.

We were flying on a small Embraer E195 jet aircraft. A visually impaired lady two rows in front of us had a Labrador guide dog under the seat. Thankfully the man in front didn't need to reach under the seat for his life jacket. He might have got a big lick.

Johannesburg airport was another challenge. Moving from domestic arrivals to international departures was fun. Scanning again the same bags brought through Port Elizabeth certain items were now deemed unacceptable and yet another Sooty whispered that I shouldn't have something in my bag but I had no Idea what the contraband was. He whispered confidentially that on this occasion he would turn a blind eye but don't tell the lady over there. We searched through the bag later a discovered a couple of oranges that the hotel had slipped in. No idea if that's what the fuss was about. Then an official porter kindly showed us how to negotiate the endless corridors. When nicely positioned for correct departures he started muttering about a tip, as did the man in the Gents.

Our flight to Kasane was on an even smaller plane, an Embraer E135/140. If we had to do another flight we'd all be sitting with the pilot!

Happily after having the passports checked by two sets of people we collected our hold luggage (remarkably arrived despite the transfer) and we were met by a very nice lady from the Chobe Game Lodge. We were joined by two ladies from Philadelphia, piling into the back of a Toyota Landcruiser and driven the 40 minute journey to the Game Reserve. We were then shown to our lodge but there's an itinerary here don't you know and we were supposed to have afternoon tea and then present ourselves for the three hour cruise looking for wildlife. No time for everything, so we missed the tea and dashed down to the waiting boats bobbing by the quayside of the Chobe River. Ours is the Botswana bank whilst the opposite bank is Namibia.

The bar was free as were the nibbles and the animals we were able to see. The great thing about water is that sooner or later all animals come down to it. We witnessed bathing elephants, hippos, crocodiles, monkeys, giraffes and an African Fish Eagle along with herons and egrets. A truly superb setting and collection of animals on our first visit, made all the more perfect by a magnificent sunset. A great end to a day where temperatures peaked at 35°C.

[littlemisspractical]

In May 2023 my long-term DnD campaign came to an end, with the Justic Collective (the Paladin named us) defeating the machnations of Bane and saving the world! So I drew us a group portrait!

From right to left we have: Talari, standoffish cleric of Kelevmor on a mission to save her son. Nadia (my character!), friendly barbarian, sworn guardian of the material plane, with Ulva, her direwolf Thoradin, overly-ambitious barbarian with dubious morals Krusk, naieve ex-paladin, who died and came back a Divine Soul sorcerer. His beloved cat Sooty is sat on Thoradin's foot. Dezeldmiir, ex murder cultist monk who is now a Chosen of Bahamut

It was fun to draw and get all the little character details in!

[Image description] Talari, on the left of the group, stands with her hands held in front of her and a slight smile. She is a white half-elf with ginger hair cut in a bob. She is wearing a white shirt, brown trousers, and a black open-fronted robe with a silver holy symbol on the front. Nadia is standing just behind and to her right. She is a tall, muscular, white human woman. She is similing with her eyes closed and her head tilted, with one arm around Krusk. She is wearing a cream tank top decorated with red tufts of fur, brown trouers and fur boots. She has a necklance in the shape of an oak leaf. Krust is standing to Nadia's right with one arm on her shoulder, also similing with his eyes closed. He is a tall half-orc man wearing blue-grey plate armour and a dramatic red cloak. His other hand is resting on Dezeldmiir's shoulder. Ulva the direwolf is stood behind Nadia and Thoradin. She has jumped up to put her front paws on their shoulders, and has her tounge hanging out. She has brown-grey fur and the air of a wolf well pleased with herself. Thoradin is stood in front of Nadia and Krusk. He is a very muscular, white dwarf man, with long, flaming ginger hair and beard. His is grinning confidently with his arms crossed. He is shirtless, with many black tattoos. He wear a wide wrestlers belt, green plaid trousers, and large boots. A small black housecat sits on his foot. Dezeldmiir is standing on the right. She is a petite drow woman with purple skin and lilac hair. She is wearing a blue wrap dress, a silver brooch, and a flower in her hair. She is barefoot. [End image description]

[enparallel]

Book report: Winter in the Air

Winter in the Air, Sylvia Townsend Warner

This is a book of short stories, which is objectively the most difficult fiction of them all. There are 18 separate realities in these few pages, and they are each inhabited by totally separate beings. It's like going to an enormous party full of interesting people and talking with one after another after another, there are always more people to talk to, you never go back to the one you already decided you did/did not like, it is only the party as a whole you judge at the end. AND it's not fair to say "well it was lovely but now I'm exhausted" because the exhaustion was going to happen no matter who was there, wasn't it? You can't blame the concept of parties.

So: I talked to some great stories. These were mostly all published in The New Yorker, in a big stretch of time but possibly 1938-1955. The pithy little images STW creates are some of the best I've ever read for revealing a character's #relatable but not even remotely generic observations and conditions; she forms a person up in a few opinions stated in a few words and she's highly amusing in the process. The materiality of her settings! the economy of her skewerings! the desolation of her heartbreaks, all the more because half these characters have the epiphany that they've thrown their lives away on nothing and will VERY OBVIOUSLY go have a good sandwich and put it out of their heads forever.

A couple gorgeous sentences: "...one must have a small decency-bit of time in which to lick one's wounds and wring the sea-water of shipwreck out of one's hair." "It was a dislikeable room, mutilated by the remodelling, which had shorn it for a bathroom. The tree beyond the bedroom window, she thought...--even the tree, in itself a pleasant thing, must be contemplated as a sparrow-rack, where, from the first light onward, sparrows would congregate and clatter, making sleep impossible." (both from "Winter in the Air")

"It was late October. The trees had already shed most of their leaves, which were quietly consuming in bonfires. Those which remained hung motionless, their colours burning against the deep blue of the sky. All the shabbiness of late summer was gone. The grass had renewed its green, the plane trees had stripped off their sooty bark, the picnicking parties contained no inelegant nudes or panting dogs. It was as though summer, after a purgatory of equinoctial rain and gales, had come back ensainted." ("Shadwell")

The other thing about the unity of form and audience in these stories is that is exposes the formulaic nature of the model: the single heartfelt detail that creates the fatal twist, the twist that creates the re-narrativizing of the entire past and/or future, the way love and being true to yourself simultaneously is the only worthwhile path and yet also so unsatisfactory, muddy and full of potholes and not in the direction one would prefer. No one gets what they want here, unless it is as comeuppance, and we look at them from on high where we can appreciate the full distance between the inchoate longings of the soul and the crappy little options the body manages to locate. It rings perfectly true in some chambers and flatly ridiculous in others. It would be a lot easier to appreciate if more or less every story didn't work in the exact same pattern.

Does every story work in the exact same pattern? IDK, because I didn't wholly get the reference on a couple of them and am left flatfooted at the turn from relation of events to Meaningful Sentence. I frickin love the subtle accumulation of evidence suddenly revealed to display the Whole-Ass Answer of what's going on but a lot of it depends on cultural touchstones in common and I don't have a full matching set with STW. I'm definitely keeping the book longer to google what's going on in the bits where I can feel how it comes together but I don't understand WHY. (This is actually exactly what it felt like to read New Yorker stories as a late teen or whatever. I just don't know enough and everything is references and inferences from references. Foundational literary trauma.) Possibly googling them will teach me how to pull these tricks off better myself, and then I can assuage my cultural anxiety by putting a bunch of footnotes to explain the joke and then pretending the footnotes are also jokes so that no one feels condescended to or excluded.

Anyway if this is STW's random party behavior commercial fiction I suspect I'll love visiting her house her novels.

[nando161mando]

Spawn Soundtrack 14. A Plane Scraped Its Belly On A Sooty Yellow Moon Sooulcoughing & roni size

[lovelaid]

𝗟𝗢𝗥𝗗   𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗖   𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗗.         and   the   songbirds   are   singing     ...

named:       alec   brandon   marbrand,   né   sunglass.       otherwise   known   as:       any   slew   of   affectionate   nicknames   from   family.       crowned:       lord   of   ashemark.       aged:       twenty9.       born:       in   a   nondescript   back   street   in   sweetport   sound,   destined   to   find   his   way   to   the   ruling   family.       identifies   as:    cis   man,   he/him.   biromantic,   bisexual.       currently   resides:       at   his   marital   home,   in   ashemark.       faithful   to:    the   seven.

born   to:       a   travelling   artist    +    a   dancer       ;       between   her   nectarous   song    +    the   sway   of   her   hips,   what   chance   did   he   have    ?       siblings   include:    annara   tully,   née   sunglass,   older   sister.   jonquil   sunglass,   younger   sister.   aemma   sunglass,   younger   sister.   garrick   sunglass,   younger   brother.     married   to:    the   heir   of   ashemark.       related   to:       the   marbrands,   through   his   marriage.   the   tullys,   through   his   sister's   marriage.

eyes:       a   dark   brown   with   glimmers   of   gold   woven   in       —       kind   eyes,   that   much   can   be   said.   often   softened,    +    slightly   akin   to   that   of   a   doe,   beguiling    +    almost   pleading   when   need   be.   very   persuasive,   at   any   rate.       hair:       black,   with   lighter   highlights   where   exposure   to   the   sun   has   brought   out   a   chestnut - chocolate   in   it.   grown   out,    +    wavy.       skin:       golden,   freckled   wherever   the   sun   kisses       —       a   veritable   galaxy   along   the   high   planes   of   his   face,   shoulders,   back,   arms.       stature:       six   foot.   ectomorph,   with   most   musculature   focused   in   his   arms    +    core.       distinguishing   features:       callouses   on   his   hands,   thick   dark   lashes   that   appear   a   sooty   smudge   on   the   high   planes   of   his   cheeks.   dimples   in   both   cheeks.       voice:       low    +    deep,   but   sweet.   pleasing   to   listen   to,   especially   when   he   indulges   a   little   too   hard   in   dornish   red    +    sings.

born   of   a   travelling   artist    +    one   of   the   former   ruling   lady’s   favourite   dancers,   also   notably   one   of   her   closest   friends    +    confidantes.    (    for   what   it’s   worth,   it   was   a   tryst   gone   sweetly   wrong       —       the   minute   her   middle   started   to   swell   with   the   telltale   signs   of   a   child,   she   had   confided   in   the   ruling   lady,   asked   her   to   take   on   the   child   she   could   not.   her   beloved   lady,   already   the   mother   of   so   many   adopted   children,   did   not   think   twice   about   it.    )    alec   has   never   laboured   under   any   impression   of   his   heritage       —       the   ruling   lord    +    lady   never   hid   any   of   their   children’s   backgrounds.   he’s   known,    +    met,   his   mother   many   times.   he   maintains   an   incredibly   positive   relationship   with   her.

grows   up   as   one   of   the   youngest   of   the   sunglass   family,   adored   by   his   parents    +    remembered   fondly   by   all   that   ever   encountered   him.   sweet   little   boy,   with   a   heart   of   gold    /    dashing   young   man,   charming   with   no   capability   to   be   terrible.   vexatious,   yes,   but   terrible    ?    not   in   their   wildest   dreams   can   the   people   of   sweetport   sound   imagine   their   darling   prince   being   intentionally   cruel.

with   his   development   comes   his   love   for   the   arts,   something   his   family   encourages    +    trades   on       —       conveniently   so.   the   royal   courts   have   drawn   on   the   sunglass   family   for   eons    ;    reputation,   legend   grown   as   premier   artisans.   their   boy   is   no   different:   poetry   comes   easy   as   breathing,   song   something   sweet   in   the   velvet   of   his   throat.   it   isn’t   long   before   he’s   drawn   away   to   the   crownlands,   deposited   in   the   very   heart   of   king’s   landing,   like   generations   before   him       —       waiting,   bones   quaking,   to   coax   a   smile   from   the   queen   herself.

(    he   will,    +    he   does.   family   sighs   a   breath   of   relief,   when   raven   delivers   the   news    /    always   had   hope,   but   his   nerves   get   the   better   of   him.   nobody   likes   a   poet   with   hands   that   shake   too   hard   to   read   spidery   scribblings,   but   his   remain   steady.    )

it’s   in   his   stint   at   king’s   landing   that   he   meets   her       —       heir   to   ashemark,   future   bride,   at   that   stage   merely   a   lovely,   pearlescent   smile   in   the   front   row.   to   this   day,   it’s   the   only   time   he’s   ever   forgotten   a   word    +    let   his   cadence   slip       —       call   it   love   at   first   sight,   call   it   what   you   want.   at   the   end   of   the   day,   he   considers   it   the   beginning   of   the   rest   of   his   life,   grinning   out   at   him.

rarity,   to   find   a   love   match   in   a   viper’s   nest   but   that’s   what   it   proves   to   be       ;       it’s   not   entirely   clear   who   pursues   who,   but   it’s   obvious   that   there’s   a   magnetism   that   can’t   go   unignored.   it   doesn’t   take   long   before   the   bells   ring   with   it       —       house   marbrand    +    house   sunglass   are   to   join,   its   children   are   to   wed.    (    promising   his   life   to   the   woman   he   loves   with   a   fervour   unmatched   felt   like   breathing,   twice   as   easy,   so   markedly   natural.   he’s   wondered   about   many   things,   but   he’s   never   doubted   that   this   is   where   he’s   meant   to   be       —       at   her   side,   always.       )

fascinating   trajectory       —       beloved   boy,   adored   artisan,   faithful   husband,   future   lord   consort.   glimmering   future   rolls   out   ahead   of   him,   but   he’s   content   to   take   every   day   by   itself,   figure   it   out   as   it   comes.   what   better   way   to   live   than   that    ?

[usafphantom2]

Did you know the SR 71 flew over Cuba?

Here’s another example of why satellites were not up to the job in 1979.

The Cold War was icy when President Carter ordered the SR 71s to fly over Cuba, looking for Soviet nuclear action.

Undetected by hostile radarscopes, a flock of Blackbirds began flying at 85,000 ft. over the Caribbean last week, their sooty titanium skins glowing cherry red from air friction as they hit top speeds in excess of 2,000 m.p.h. The planes were Lockheed's needle-nosed SR-71s on strategic reconnaissance missions that President Carter had ordered to monitor Soviet military activity in Cuba.

If any aircraft can determine the combat capability of the Soviet brigade on the island, it is the SR-71—the fastest, highest-flying, and most elusive manned aircraft in existence. So fast does the sophisticated spy plane move that when a pilot starts a 180° turn over Cuba, he completes it halfway to Bermuda. By emitting ECM, or electronic countermeasure radio frequency signals, the Blackbird can efface its image from watching radar screens.

Stationed primarily at Beale Air Force Base in California, the SR-71s last flew over Cuba in November 1978 to help determine whether Havana's Soviet-supplied MiG-23 fighters had a nuclear capability. U.S. strategic satellites are also used for surveillance. But when their vision is obscured by cloud cover, the job is given to SR-71s, which have cloud-penetrating infrared sensors and cameras that can take pictures at a scanning rate of 100,000 sq. mi. per hr., making it possible to monitor military targets anywhere in the world. Most important are the Blackbird's ELINT—electronic intelligence-gathering functions that are also known as "ferreting." SR-71s can detect hidden objectives by interpreting electronic signals at extremely high altitudes. In addition, Blackbirds carry a long-range, side-looking radar (SLAR) that can spy deep into foreign countries without actually crossing their frontiers.

I paraphrase this from a Times magazine article from 1979. Our SR-71s continued to fly over Cuba when necessary.

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[sootygifs]

The Sooty Show - "Cars, Trains, Boats and Planes"