#sorrell brown

[raleydrew]

Similar to Bleached Cedar:

Thunder - #33292F

Eggplant - #380835

Crater Brown - #462425

Baltic Sea - #2A2630

Similar to Wine Berry:

Old Mauve - #673147

Grape Purple - #5D1451

Pansy Purple - #78184A

Wine - #722F37

Similar to Dusky Rose:

Tulip Pink - #C25A7C

Turkish Rose - #B57281

Bashful Pink - #C25283

Coral Tree - #A86B6B

Similar to Sorrell Brown:

Very Light Brown - #D3B683

Burly Wood - #DEB887

Harvest Gold - #E0B974

Coral Reef - #C7BCA2

Similar to Lunar Green:

Grey Asparagus - #465945

Black Cow - #4C4646

Rifle Green - #414833

Gravel - #4A444B

Our Words Neverlasting - Submitted by SeesawSiya

#3b1b33 #651e3e #b36380 #d0ba88 #43503f

[hautecouturehues]

[roseate-felidae]

Learning new cat colour genetics. Hybrid introduced genes.

Basically, I learnt most of the genetics of cats and some rodents from a book called the Colour Inheritance in Small Livestock by Roy Robinson. Printed 2013.

But new genes have been discovered since, part 4.

Bengal (Asian leopard cat, ALC)-

Come in Spotted and marbled. Ocelli refers to white spots on back of ears f1-f3.

Brown- normal, but can be chocolate (choc not black markings) and golden (with Inhibitor gene)

Snow bengals- Seal lynx point (tabby point) (cs cs), seal mink (cb,cs), seal sepia (cb,cb). Eyes are blue, aqua and green or gold I'm that order.

Silver bengals- inhibitor gene, ground is white to steel grey. Markings dark grey to jet black.

Charcoal- modification of tabby gene, occur as Alc asip mismatches with domestic asip gene. So come in charcoal brown, charcoal snow and charcoal silver. Barely any rufousing, black markings. "Zoro" Mask on nose and face.

Sorrel- lighter shades of brown, similar to cinnamon. Is corin gene

Wheaten- non rufous sorrel

Whited- white fronts, face and undersides. From Asian leopard cat. Not linked to white spotting.

Melanistic- black self

Blue- ground pale blue grey to slate blue grey. Markings are medium to dark blue. Not recognised in bengals.

Albino- white with red/purple eyes. Pink paw pads. May have come from Asian leopard cat

Glitter- Fgfr2 mutation in domestic cats. Soft and iridescent fur. Caused by hollow spaces in hairs. Two versions. Mica looks like tiny "silicate crystals" in the hair tips. Recessive. Not on solid cats

Satin- Is whole hair shaft and have larger air cells in hairs. Causes translucency. Recessive.

Patina - dark hairs blur the basic black/ brown pattern on the back/shoulder. Causing it to look fading

Cashmere/Pardino- long haired bengal

Savannah- (serval)-

Bengal colours

Servaline- a tabby that has small freckle spots. Instead of big spots

Chausie- (jungle cat)-

Grizzle- silver tipped black. Type of glitter. From Jungle cats

Geoffery cat and oncilla hybrids had fertility issues. Margay Hybrid resemble bengal.

[canyourlawnmowerdothis]

i NEED to get one of those d20 necklaces i have so many silly dice now

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A List of "Beautiful" Words: Brown

for your next poem/story

Adust - scorched, burned

Auburn - a moderate brown

Beige - of a color that is light grayish-yellowish brown

Biscuit - a light grayish-yellowish brown

Bronze - a moderate yellowish brown

Castaneous - of the color chestnut

Chestnut - a grayish to reddish brown

Cinnamon - a light yellowish brown

Cocoa - a medium brown color

Drab - a light olive brown

Infuscation - darkened with a brownish tinge

Khaki - a light yellowish-brown

Mahogany - a moderate reddish brown

Russet - a reddish brown

Rust - a strong reddish brown

Sepia - a brownish-gray to dark olive-brown color

Sorrel - a brownish orange to light brown

Tan - a light yellowish brown

Umber - a moderate to dark yellowish brown

Walnut - a moderate reddish brown

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ More: Word Lists

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it. 

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?  

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits. 

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong. 

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch. 

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius. 

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight. 

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud. 

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child. 

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader. 

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air. 

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you. 

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream. 

And he turns. 

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from. 

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart. 

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him. 

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast. 

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual. 

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . . 

You are brought to his tent, screaming. 

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock. 

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood. 

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot. 

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should. 

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle. 

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately. 

It’s just that none of them were portents of war. 

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless. 

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you. 

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself. 

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself. 

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?” 

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up. 

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know. 

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen. 

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good… 

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful 

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Black Metal and Bourbon (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of sex & intimacy, dark jokes/dirty jokes, rumors, gossip, past toxic relationship, a shitty Ex, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You slapped the damp rag back into the bar top, the fabric heavy with spilled alcohol and other fluids that you didn’t even want to try and think about. 

“Jesus.” Your muscles ache, neck stiff from having to try and slap a dart from the ceiling where some jackass had been too drunk to attempt and hit the target. The thing was still up there, as you weren’t about to spend your entire night fruitlessly attempting to fix someone else's blurry mistakes. 

You glare over your shoulder, seeing the unconscious form of the man in question being dragged out by his friends presently, his slurring chuckles making him sound like a drowning elephant. Intoxicated yells of goodbye attached to your name make you roll your eyes slowly as they begin being said; you push through the waist-height door to allow you behind the front counter. Your middle finger flips the patrons off before boisterous flirting hits the air.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that—!” Is cut off by the slam of the front doors and you couldn’t be more happy that your boss hadn’t gotten the bolts tightened. 

“Don’t get paid enough…” You grumble, eyes slithering over to the tip jar and seeing the overflow of bills and coins as your fingers wrap the neck of a bottle of Vodka. 

The profit would be split with your coworker even if she’d been gone for more than half a night getting railed by her new boy toy. You can still remember the look she’d given you as she’d walked out during rush hour, her sharp smirk and smug sheen of ‘you won’t say anything, will you?’

Grumbling under your breath, you slip the Vodka back into its slot on the wall racks, while telling yourself you can’t drink on the job; trying to forget the face of the man that had been attached to hers before they’d stumbled to the back alley.  

“Graham Whitaker, you’re such a five-cent sell-out,” you shake your head, sighing heavily into the air that smells like booze and sweat. 

Graham Whitaker—your Ex in every sense. 

You decided to tell your coworker, if she ever showed back up, that the only reason she was getting dicked-down was because it was that man’s plan to try and make you jealous. As if you’d be caught with your pants down over a prick that had cheated on you more times than you could count before you threw his ass out. 

“Not my problem anymore,” your hands move to display themselves in a motion of a settled disagreement before wiping them on your black pants. 

It was late now, of course, with the dart-drunk and his friends being the last patrons that you had to serve. But you’d been in this town a long, long time. 

Sorrel the construction worker came in an hour, Miss Anna-Lee accompanying for her nightly Gin and Tonic before she talked about her late love from the seventies. From there it was three more regulars before closing activities and fighting to get up tomorrow by noon only to do it all over again. 

Over and over and over. 

You lean back on the counter and look across the brown wood and warm overhead lights, behind you, the illumination from the drink rack gives off a dead glow. 

This was your workplace since you'd been of age, and over the years that seemed to drag, here is where you’d stayed. Nothing ever changed in this town—the biggest shock was when you’d broken up with Graham; people hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

This place was like a prison of slow death and abandoned dreams. Safe to say this was not what you had envisioned for yourself.

You scoff, pushing off the back counter and snatching your rag back up before you can spiral once more.

The stains weren’t going to buff themselves out.

Maybe it was chance that the mechanics shop across the street had shut down, too few employees and too many drug busts. Chance, or fate, whichever it was you chose to believe in that still-air Sunday, it was still a shock to you when you looked out the front window as Sorrel called goodnight through his heavy accent. 

‘SOLD’

“Sold?” Sorrel pauses with one foot out of the door, and he chuckles when he sees where you’re looking in shock, your hand holding a dirty glass. 

“Haven’t heard, then? Few newcomers snuck in under our noses—they’ll be running the place; mechanics!” 

“New?” You laugh. “Who in their right mind would come here of all places?” 

Sorrel shakes his head, grumbling as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “You’ll just have to meet ‘em, Doll. Sure you’ll leave a glowing impression.”

“Take that shit outside, you ass. You know I hate the smell.” A smirk graces your dead eyes. 

“Like I said. Glowing.” You glare, but the man slips out of the door quickly and his form passes by the window outside to climb into his truck parked in the street. Two honks from the horn and the older man is off, grizzly-like beard gone just like your boredness. 

New arrivals? 

You blink at the blackened shadows of the street, illuminated by the lights and their tall tree-like bases—the sway of the planted bushes in the boxes outside. Your head tilts at the abyssal building that was once in working order. 

It was a shitshow now, years of abandonment not giving it any helping hand regarding upkeep. The concrete was cracked, the garage door was hanging off of one side, and the front windows had been broken by your Ex’s buddies when they had gotten into a fight like the three-year-olds they were. 

You hum lowly. A hard-chucked set of keys, you recalled. You’d seen it from here easily enough. Hadn't lied to Sheriff Russel when he’d come knocking, and, you suppose, that was why even now the immature posse still tried to scare you by following you home at night to this day.

As if everyone didn’t know where everyone else lived already. 

But back to the current interest for the night. 

“Let’s have a little look-see, then,” you breathe, knowing Miss Anna-Lee would be a good while away like always. You could chance five minutes—it was just across the street after all. 

Shuffling outside, making sure to hold the door until it closes slowly, you step down the single step and stick your hands into your pockets. The night wasn’t hot or cold, simply there like a metaphorical cut on your palm; it wasn’t surprising the more you lived with it, but it still made your skin itch. 

Feet padding, you cross the dead street and take in the long stretch of unkempt grass, stepping onto the broken curb as your shoes crunch broken glass. Long-gone cigarette butts are scattered here and there, the occasional stray bit of metal or trash. Your eyes shift slowly from one brick that makes up the frame to another, the peeling blue color that could use touching up. 

The mural you had painted in middle school had faded a long time ago, just like the great expectations of going into an art career. The eyes of a great gray wolf are only a dark outline that you can’t help but stare at as if a cancer was growing in your brain, hidden behind the reach of green ivy. 

Ripping your eyes away, you ignore the cry of tires from across the town and the pop of an exhaust pipe—the roar of either a car chase by the repeat offender Irene Chaney, or by some stupid kid related to Irene Chaney. 

“She’s gonna wreck one of these days,” you breathe, looking down at your object of intention—the sold sign in all of its red and white glory. 

Your hand snakes out and grabs the cheap plastic, stopping its swaying with a creak and a tilt of your head. 

You just couldn’t understand it—who in their right mind would buy this place? The only thing it would be good as is rubble, at least then some rabbit could make its very dusty home here. 

Sorrel had mentioned multiple people too. 

“Must be up at the B&B then,” your voice carries over the space, the stars twinkling above you as a shadow stands at the end of the cracked driveway. Its hands are in its pockets, tall form bulky with the dark brown leather jacket around its intimidating form. You’re none the wiser, letting the sign drop as you put your hands to your hips. “They better not be fuckin’ dickheads—”

“Mind explainin’ to me why I came to get a drink and now I’m talkin’ to some Bird on my property?” 

You startle, gasp peeling out of your lips as your head swivels as if attached to a string which, in turn, tracks back to the source of a heavy Manchester accent. Grass breaks under your feet, as the gravel of the tone makes you cringe. Your eyes lock on the man who looks like he just came back from a warzone. 

The first thing you noticed was the balaclava and the skeleton detailing, of course, how could you not—the lower half was an inch below those October eyes of the deepest shade of brown you’d ever witnessed. 

Your spine straightens in cautious surprise, hiding the way your hands had clenched as if ready to swing on your Ex if he so happened to be there instead of…this person. 

“Excuse me?” You say, quickly, as if it was forced out instead of a scream. Your face pushes that stern expression back to your face as your throat clears out the hoarseness.

A covered head tilts with its small sliver of pale flesh visible to you—the strong bones of his nose bridge and hidden jawline. The bulk of large muscles and thighs spoke to hard labor, and his booted feet shifted below loose black cargo pants. 

The mask alone caused you a hint of worry in those few seconds of fast study of this phantom’s anatomy. 

He blinks at you slowly, raising the small corner of a dark brow from a respectable distance away.

“Said you’re trespassing, yeah?” Your face gains a sheen of heat, and you glance at your bar behind the stranger, at the bright burn of the lights. 

Taking a stiff breath, your lips pull into a frown as you try to hide your embarrassment.

“Well…a holler would have been just fine.” A fake glare is put on. “What’s with sneaking up on a woman in the middle of the night? Are you some creep or something?”

Those dark eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment you don’t know if you’ve encountered a statue or not because he doesn’t speak for a moment. 

A puff of breath from his nose. 

“You the bartender, then?” You motion to your nametag above your left breast and grunt. His gaze homes in before he simply says, “Good.”

Without another word, the man turns stiffly before he steadily begins making his way back to the bar; crossing the street with a swift check of the road. You watch him saunter off, jaw slackened and your cheeks hot. The span of his shoulder blades levels out as he rolls his shoulders. 

Where did this guy even come from? The answer was simple, the bed and breakfast was only four buildings down and to the left. Guy must have come in for a late-night serenade with a bottle.

A quick glance is thrown back to the rundown property behind you before you growl and hurry after this individual who currently pushes open the faulty doors of your work. Jogging across the asphalt, you catch the thing right before it closes and slip inside with a puff of air and a shoved-down snap of a sarcastic ‘thanks’. 

Yet, the man is already pulling back one of the bar stools and easing into it when you make it behind the counter. You study him yet again. 

“You’re one of the new mechanics?” Brown-Eyes blinks at you. 

Without missing a beat, he goes, “Bourbon—Kentucky.”

“I asked a question,” you cross your arms, not even for a moment looking away as the silence of the bar sneaks in around you and this strange creature. “Least you can do for a lady is answer it when you act like a damn cat and sneak up on her.”

“You were on my property.” This is leveled out through a grunt, and after a moment of staring, you scoff. 

“I was curious about who had bought such a piece of junk. Guess I have my answer.” Your hand grabs the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the amber liquid inside sloshing as you turn back and put it into the wood. There’s a fraction of a dead tease that makes the man seem more human than he looks.

“Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

“I prefer a solar flair.” You comment dryly and set an engraved glass next to the bottle. Something flickers past the mechanic’s eyes, a quirk to the fabric of his balaclava. 

“On The Rocks or Neat?” Your brow raises and you tilt your head. 

“That even a bloody question? Neat.” You snort, splaying your hands before you grab the bottle as he watches you blankly. 

“Sorry, it's kind of my job to ask.” Your hand shifts and you pour a reasonable amount into the glass, knowing exactly when to stop. As you shift the bottle away, you leave it on the bar top and gently push the beverage to him as his gloved fingers take it up. You repress a small smile at the matching bone gloves to go with the detailing on his balaclava.

“Bartenders always have this much attitude?” The glass is kept in front of his person, carefully held in his large grip. 

Moving back, you go to lean on the back counter. This night was quickly taking an interesting turn. “Only if they’re me.” You sigh. “You have a name, then, Brown-Eyes?” 

The individual snorts at the title, but his eyes narrow on you at the same time as if he was held hesitant at the ability for you to make him. He had an air of casual tension around him, like a dog on a thin leash that can only just manage to meet others and stay his fangs. 

Danger, you pinpoint. The man felt like danger. A riptide; surface tension.

Then why was it that you felt more and more intrigued by the second?

“Simon Riley,” he eases, staring with those numb eyes of his before he tips the glass slightly your way. With the thumb on the same hand that holds the bourbon, he hooks it under his face covering and pulls it up until he can connect the glass to his lips and take down a sip as his Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow. 

On the way back, his thumb drags the fabric back to its previous position as if nothing had happened. The image of pale skin and stubble sticks with you, and your eyes shift away quickly without you realizing it as the glass is returned to the counter. 

“Well, Simon Riley,” you mutter, “welcome to nowhere.”

The man hums, eyes looking you over in a single glance before the gaze shifts to the wall behind your head. He says nothing, and the door opens to the next three familiar customers as you move to take their order. As you slip out from behind the barrier, you grumble under your breath before you slip past Simon to the corner booth. 

“For the record, Riley, I do enjoy seein’ that old place getting taken on. Don’t run it into the ground, would you? And if you need a fresh coat of paint, for the love of all things holy, don’t go down to the Schafersons’ place, you come right to me.” 

Walking casually, you greet the three ladies from the downtown library with a smirk and an easy comment about if their husbands knew they were out so late, to which you promptly got cursed out on good faith. Sharing a few chuckles, you get them started on what they need, all the while feeling those brown orbs now following subtly from the side of their sockets, intrigued. 

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of you, and the same could be said about this town as a whole. A woman with such a future trapped behind her eyes, adventure in her blood, why were you here in a place with nothing promised for it except dying businesses and old faces? This was a place where people came to hang up the coat, not try and rip it off of its peg. 

The children born here with ambitions leave, that was the common denominator. Even Simon could see that. But you? Here you were. 

The man peels his eyes away, taking up his glass again and re-hooking his thumb to his mask. Amber liquid seeps into his mouth, pulling the scars on his lips and cheeks as he swallows it down as easily as water. The bourbon pools in his stomach, sending its honied effects to the back of his mind; it would take much more to get drunk, but that wasn’t what Simon was looking for. 

Perhaps he was just out tonight wondering why he’d left the military for a mechanic’s job and come out here—asking anything for a sign that this was the right decision even as his head echoed with the screams and the gunfire. 

And then he’d seen you standing in front of the fuckin’ worst mechanics shop he’d ever seen that he’d signed the property deed for not three hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at the place before buying it—Price was responsible for the official financial actions, and the man had made him swear that it was worth it.

But fuck, he’d just needed a way out of the city. Too loud, too unpredictable in that previous shop of theirs right by the busy street. MacTavish and Garrick had been easy to convince; they’d all served together before and had no family over here either. 

A new start thousands upon thousands of miles away. 

Your head pulls up from where you chat with the librarians, hearing the slam of the door as the draft wafts in from outside—a small breeze has picked up. 

Inside walks in your very ruffled, and very well-pleased, coworker, Celina Bell. 

She brushes down her top and black skirt, blinking around with blown pupils until her eyes lock on you. A poisonous smile meets your eyes as you raise a brow slowly—Lord, if this girl didn’t realize that fucking your Ex over some workplace squabble wasn’t something to be proud of, she was really a lost cause. 

Simon only glances over his shoulder before turning back around and tapping his fingers against his glass absentmindedly. 

“You alright?” You ask out of due diligence, sparing the ladies an apology look for them being interrupted. 

“Better than alright,” Celina chuckles, walking over with a limp in her step. “Just scored Graham Whitaker.” She fake pauses, blinking as if in realization that a child would know was taking the piss. Your face is stuck in the expression of boredom. “Wait…you two were involved for a few years, right? Oh, I’m really sorry—I had no clue.”

“Yeah,” you look her up and down and blink at the disheveledness. “Sure. Quite the score.” A pause, her lips pulling back into that smug smirk that reminds you of a weasel. Yet your next words leave her face devoid of blood. “You know he got Chlamydia from Stacy Green a week ago, right?”

A pin could be heard dropping. Brown eyes are firmly stuck to the scene, unsure what to make of it. The ladies stifle their laughter.

“...W-what?”

“Y’know,” you motion a hand to her lower body, walking past her back to the bar. “STD. Chlamydia. Results in—”

“I know what the fuck an STD is, you bitch.”

“Woah,” you whistle, “language.” Your body returns to the counter as loud stuttering is left behind you, the frantic patting of a pocket to look for a phone before enraged feet rush to the exit. “Need a refill, Riley?”

“It can wait,” Simon utters slowly. The door slams shut.

You chuckle, shrugging. “Alright, suit yourself.” 

The man takes the names you drop and files them away, slotting them into his mental database for when he needs to work with these people. Yet, there’s already a sour impression just off of comments alone. Who better to get your news from than a bartender? 

You know everyone's dirty little secrets.

You diligently serve the drinks to the librarians, placing them down carefully before Simon once more has a re-filled glass of his drink. He moves it slightly up in a cheer and gives you a stare as you wipe your hands with a clean rag.

“Seems you know everything ‘round ‘ere.” His accent is what draws you in, and you find yourself eager to hear more from him. 

“I’m easy to talk to,” you respond, shrugging and leaning on the counter a foot or two away as you both watch the other. A smirk overtakes your features. “And I am the one that gives people the drinks.”

“So, what I’m hearing,” Simon raises a brow. “Is that you get ‘em dunker than a man on his execution date.” 

You click your tongue, tilting your head in a teasing manner while maintaining a serious face. 

“Afraid you’ll spill your secrets, Riley?” 

His eyes flash at you, and his lips flicker into a smirk you can hear in his voice. 

“It’ll take more than two glasses of Bourbon to get me talking, Sunshine.” 

Your face shifts away, but the sudden fight with a smile leaves you nearly breathless. 

Who is this man?

“Why are you here,” your question meets his ears as he takes back the last of his drink, stomach filled for the night and his searching, for the moment, abated. 

The glass meets the bar top. 

He grunts. “Needed a drink.”

Your lips pull in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re terrible at answering questions.”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, shaking your head as a low chuckle makes your insides swirl. 

A stack of bills is placed on the counter, and the man stands, grabbing the hood of his black sweatshirt and pulling it up. His gloved hands go to the pockets of his leather jacket with a roll of his wide shoulders. From under the hood, the white of the painted mask glares out from under the shadows that now shroud him. 

You both sneak a glance at the mechanic's shop—a clear view from the front window. 

“See you around, then?” Your head is tilted at him, blinking. You hum under your breath. “I’m going to keep asking you why you showed up in this town, Riley, and I won’t stop until I get an answer.”

Simon quirks a brow, eyes glinting with interest. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this outside of his boys?

“Look forward to it,” he utters slowly. With a blink and one more dead look, he’s already out the front door and walking back down the street—disappearing like a ghost the same way he had appeared. 

Picking up his cash and counting through it, the librarians across the way snicker, and one calls out, “So, the new mechanic, huh?”

“One more peep and I’m doubling your tab.”

But…you did have to admit, he had been charming…hadn’t he? At least someone here could juggle your attitude.

—

Three days pass with no sighting of Simon Riley, but just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean you weren’t witness to his aftermath. 

The shop across the street was practically fixed up while you were asleep. 

Where there had been overgrown grass, there was now a cut lawn getting watered by the reach of an angry sprinkler. The fast movement of the spray reaches the sidewalk that was, somehow, still there under all that trash hiding away like a criminal. Stray bricks are gone and stacked into a pile as you pause outside the bar, staring wide-eyed with your breath caught in your throat in the late morning air. 

The ivy over your mural was peeled back—that faded wolf’s gaze locking with yours, unyielding to the calls of time as its canid body stool as a silent sentinel. 

But, on the third day, as you’re going on break before the night sets in, you manage to not only see Simon again but meet two of the other men who’d moved here.

You pick up your feet and jog across the street, hopping the curb as you blink, impressed at the open garage with its fixed and oiled bay door. Inside it was still dusty—remnants of what was left behind in the corners and scattered. But it was getting there. Quickly. 

“Didn’t know Simon was goin’ to sign on such a piece of rusted shite—where’s the fuckin’ outlets?” Gritted Scottish. You stick your hands into your pockets and enter the large opening. 

“If I remember,” you speak, finding the two men standing slightly off to the side as the bulkier one with a mohawk carries a series of extension cords. Cobalt and brown eyes dart to you in shock—the second man of darker complexion sharing a glance with the other in swift confusion. “When you manage to find them, they’ll all be burst.” 

Blank stares are sent your way. 

“Kids would come by and watch ‘em spark when they were bored. No one really cared enough to stop them.” A clearing of a throat meets your ears as you study the room more. 

It was small, with only one main garage for all the repairs, but that wasn’t new to you. The motorcycles were, though. 

Five in total all parked and resting next to one another near the back wall, all in varying shades of black and gray. Your lips twitch at the sight, imagining your late-night acquaintance riding one of them—you dare say that it fit him quite well, and you weren’t that surprised at all by this.

Biker mechanics. It fits the script. 

“Who’s this then?” The Scot asks you, raising a brow as a friendly smirk pulls his mouth up. “Can’t remember bookin’ any repairs today, Ma’am, might have to wait a few more days before we get it all up and runnin’.”

“I can see. No, I work just across the street,” you spare a friendly smile. 

“So you’re the bartender? The bartender.” The second man speaks, grinning kindly as he searches through a toolbox on a small table. He hums, looking playful. “So that’s why Ghost was gone so long.” 

Ghost…? Did they mean Simon?

The skeletal accents suddenly make far more sense.

“Johnny MacTavish,” A hand is leveled out ahead of you, and you take it casually with a muttering of your own name. “Soap’s just fine as well.” 

Your brow quirks, but you only share an amused nod.

The other individual stands and makes his way over, tall and leaner as to where Soap’s more blatant strength is. 

“Kyle Garrick—Gaz. Pleasure.” 

“Just came over to introduce myself,” your hand shifts back into your pockets as you motion with your head back to the bar. “I’m on my break.” 

“Ah,” Soap’s hands move the cables he holds as he loops them into a more storable shape vertically around his elbow and palm. “Last one to meet then is Price—man’s in town gettin’ lunch for us,” he grunts under his breath. “Hopefully a damn set of zip-ties, too.”

“Zip-ties, Mate?” Gaz breathes a chuckle with a fix of the backward ball cap on his head. “C-4 would bloody help more. At least then we can have a clean starting point.” 

“I think we’re fresh out of C-4, unfortunately,” you huff a laugh, motioning around as the men smirk at you, Johnny snorting a chuckle. “You guys have done a pretty good job so far. I can’t remember when it looked this nice in here.”

“Well, we’re honored, Bonnie,” Soap tilts his head as he ties off the cord with one of the ends. “Makin’ me blush.”

“If Simon had just looked at the place before buying it, we might have been able to open sooner.” Gaz huffs, thinning his lips as he glances over the broken window and the peeling paint—the door to the main lobby that has a punched dent in it. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Well then it can only get better,” you breathe, shrugging. 

Gaz huffs affectionately. “Not wrong there, then.”

You lean forward, tilting your head. “You’ll find I rarely am.”

“Second time you’ve snuck on,” a Manchester accent scares you once more, head snapping to the side as the light spills in from the garage opening. “This a pattern, Sunshine?”

Simon’s brows are raised as those October eyes lock with yours. Gaz and Soap share a look, smirking before the Scot peels off to find a place to store his belongings. 

“Where have you been?” Gaz asks as you glare at the masked man for once again coming up behind you. 

A bag is presented, leaning off three fingers as a glance gets thrown past you. 

“Down the street. Needed these made.” The bag is tossed and Kyle catches it easily. 

You watch as the crinkly plastic is opened and the dark fabric of four black pairs of overalls is produced, each embroidered with their respective names. 

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Johnny pipes up, brows furrowed. 

“Looks like you got fuckin’ mugged in ‘em.” Simon slides his attention back to you as Johnny curses with a glint of amusement in his blues. 

“Aren’t open yet.” Your face peels back to a stiff annoyance. 

“I can see that, Riley.” You motion to the other men. “I was being polite.”

He grunts while walking past, muttering through a brief smirk, “Doubt that.” 

Your jaw slackens, but you only growl and hold your tongue as you glance the mechanic over. He still had his leather jacket, but a loose shirt took the place of a hoodie. 

“You ready to answer my question?” Simon locks those eyes with yours from over his shoulder before sliding up to the black form of one of the motorcycles. 

Visible to the naked eye, you take in the lack of fairings around the frame—eyeing the pure black metal of the entire engine from any angle that you might move to you’d still be able to see. It was nice. Perfect, even; damn expensive too. While the thought was enticing, you can’t imagine Simon riding it—he seemed more rugged, more…classy. 

“Negative.” You roll your eyes, but Soap speaks before you can retort. 

“Finally takin’ out the CB1000R, Ghost? ‘Bout time.” The brute throws a blank look at the Scot as Gaz utters to you a few feet away before a casual ‘no’ is leveled out through the space.

“He got it months ago,” Kyle’s eyes crinkle. “Can’t seem to take it out for a ride yet. No one knows what he’s waiting on.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” your words confide. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a fucking fortune—no use collecting dust is what I say.” You hum, shifting back to Simon who taps the seat of the CB1000R before moving past it to an older cruiser with dents and dirt along the sides. This was more him you thought. Rugged and more dated than the first; something you use on long rides to nowhere.

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a special occasion,” you guess.

“Better get on with it.” Gaz moves away with a shrug and a huff. 

Your lips pull in a small smile, and you watch Simon pull keys from his jacket and insert them as he moves to straddle the larger body of the cruiser, easing into it slowly. Staring, you think about how far that bike could take you—what you could see with it on the open road of possibilities and whipping air. Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere. 

Eyes shifting away from the motorcycle, they widen as they softly meet Simon’s own—locked for a moment in a staring contest. His lids barely pull down, studying something. You clear your throat and exhale.

Sensing your company was most likely a hindrance at this point, you turn to leave as the engine flares—you wave easily behind your back with a call of well-wishes.

“Come have a drink one time, boys, yeah? I need stories that come from strangers for once.” A ruckus of ‘affirmatives’ and ‘will do, Ma’ams’ sparks up from Johnny and Kyle as you exit to the roar of the motorcycle behind you, your feet kicking a stray rock into the grass before you make it to the curb. 

Before you can cross, a steel body blocks your path. 

“I’ll be needing a drink later tonight, then.” Simon watches from atop his seat, one booted foot to the ground to steady himself as he comes to a slow halt. His fingers curl the handles, twitching.

“Let me guess,” you tilt your head, smirking, “Bourbon?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he draws numbly, October browns as dead as mulch. As dead as dirt.

“And do you have a heart, Simon Riley?” You question, blinking at him as your mind tells you to walk away. Your brain doesn’t need a repeat of Graham—you already had enough problems on your plate right now besides some attraction to this stranger. This push and pull made your heart jerk, even when you know it shouldn’t.

You’d only just met him.

The man hums, thighs shifting on the black metal frame. He says the easiest answer he can. 

“A cold one.” 

Pushing on the ground, he takes off down the road back into the main town for whatever errand he was on this time. Your eyes follow until the figure is no more than a memory of the smell of oil and the metallic tinge of caution.

—

You hated the smell of cigarette smoke. 

Like a pregnant woman’s aversion to the scent of meat, you grew nauseous at the very hint of cheap tobacco and paper on the air—loathed the burn of it. It had to do with your Ex, of course. The man had been a habitual chain smoker, lighting up one after the other until you had to leave his house entirely to puke on the front lawn. If you thought about it hard enough, you could still taste the ash on your tongue from when he kissed you after lighting up. 

But that was only one of the reasons you’d never moved in with him despite being together for years—the cheating was the other problem. 

Girl after girl, broken promise after broken promise, you’d still held onto him as if he deserved it. Hell, all that Graham Whitaker deserved were the copious amounts of STDs he probably had after sleeping with as many women as he could to try and get back at you. You didn’t have ample reason to ban him from the bar—him or his loud-mouth friends, you should say—so the problem, like a bad rash, persisted. Cars following you after work and all. 

But, the here, the now.

Simon had, in fact, come in for that drink that night—just as he had for the last week up until the grand opening of the boys’ shop. You’d both spoken throughout these encounters and formed some sarcastic and sly-looked bond that the other locals couldn’t understand. You had even learned about his military service. 

The both of you were just…different, people said. No one else really argued with it. 

You finally met John Price before the party that you’d heard from Simon that Soap and Gaz had been eager to host for the town—‘come meet the bastards that bought that old shitty building and see how they fixed it up all by themselves. You should come and give us your money.’

It was there that a proposal was offered. 

“Simon says you told him to come to you about paint.” John was late thirties, keeping a well-trimmed beard with a mustache that was the same shade of brunette as his head of hair. Tall, as well as built, he had found you as you were closing up the bar early for the town-wide party, Celina having already slipped out. 

You were dressed in a long skirt and a nice shirt for the occasion. 

“John Price, I’d imagine,” you comment, stuffing your keys into your pocket as your purse hangs from your shoulder. A throaty grunt tells you all you need to know as you move down the step. “Yeah, I did say that. Do you need some?” You look over his shoulder to the still peeling color on the outside of the bricks as the men are dragging out folding chairs and long tables. There was the clatter of laughter and loud calls. 

John’s blue eyes shift behind him, and he raises a brow slowly. 

“Thinkin’ we’d just hire you,” a side-eye. “If you’d be interested.” 

That was a surprise. 

You begin walking across the street, the man beside you and awaiting your answer. 

“Hire me?” Your voice asks, but you aren’t against the idea. “How do you know I’ll be any good at it,” you chuckle in question. 

“Simon says he found your initials next to the mural—the wolf.” Your feet pause, stuttering for a second before you catch yourself. The blood on your face stops its circulation in shock. “Not a bad piece, then.” John grunts. “...Think you can do a skull and wings?” 

So, you sat with your sketchbook in front of the wall, a portable camping chair below your bare feet as your legs folded under you. Your slip-on sneakers rest in the green grass, kicked off with a sigh. Blinking, the chatter and mumble from the party surround you in a sheen of community and calmness. You can pinpoint every voice, every story being re-told as if new news when it goes in one ear and out the other like a breeze on the wind. 

Humming under your breath as the sun is low in the sky, you hear the silent feet still from over your shoulder. A smirk flickers your lips.

“Snooping, Riley?” 

“My building.” He grumbles, “Seein’ what you plan to do to it.”

You snort, looking over your shoulder and smiling. “If I recall, you’re the one who took up my offer and told Price about it.” 

Simon was dressed in cargos and a compression shirt pushed up to his elbows, the swell of his forearms on full display along with the scars and…tattoos. You blink at them, the swirl of black skulls and guns; barbed wire and dog tags—the dark images that fit him as his motorcycles did on his left limb. Brown eyes flicker from yours to the painted wolf.

“Good at that,” the man says, balaclava shifting. 

Your expression slowly shifts to something far softer than you can remember it ever being; inside of your chest, your heart tightens. 

“Thank you.” 

He levels you, the corners of his eyes easing out of the numb nothingness to show something akin to shielded affection. Molten sunlight on the side of his face, making the color of his irises glow amber. Simon nods to your sketchbook, clearing his throat. 

“I able to see it, then, or is it some secret?” You huff.

“Come here,” your hand motions, palm brushing away eraser shavings as your fingers get stained with graphite. The shadow comes closer, leaning over you as the scent of oil pools in your gut. You blink at the side visage, swiftly looking back down to your sketchbook as a slight wind ruffles your skirt. 

“Price was talking about a skull with wings beside it—later on he made mention of a sword through the top.” While you explain the concept, you inadvertently study the tattoos on the flesh beside you, one scarred hand coming out to lightly grab the armrest of your chair as Simon leans even closer. 

As your face begins burning, breath caught in your throat, he blinks down at the image as he looms, head tilting. 

Simon breathes, chest rising and falling as his eyes go far off. You know the symbol means something, though you also have a good guess that it’s related to this group’s time in the service. 

He hums, and you see his lips open, the rough grate of his vocal cords as he begins to form words for you. 

“It’s—”

Your name is loudly called from across the way, both Simon’s and your heads snapping back as you both realize exactly how close you two have become. The stealing of the other’s warmth like wraiths of hidden longing ceases when you wrench your attention to the man you wished would leave you alone. 

Graham raises the dark bottle of a cheap beer from the dollar store in your direction, walking over. Now, your Ex wasn’t anything spectacular, but even you had to admit it was the best you could do around here if you didn’t want to date men only five years from the grave. Graham was tall, strong, and heavy-willed like a bear. In the day hours, he worked as a farmhand down the way. 

Your body tenses, eyes going tight. Simon sees.

“Who’s this,” he asks slowly, fingers twitching. 

“Ex,” you mutter, grimacing. “He’s going to make a scene.”

Already gazes had started drifting over, conversations lapsing into mute silence as orbs shifted to three different individuals all stuck in the same storm. 

Simon grunts, standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, legs shifting below him and thighs trading weight. His moving leaves half of you kept firmly behind him and your eyes study his stance as you notice that fact. You blink, and feel something stir in your ribcage, blooming like a flower. 

“Hey, Bartender!” Graham takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as his fingers fumble over the neck of the bottle. “Though I’d seen you over here missing all the action. Nothing’s changed I see.” 

Your face pulls in with disgust.

“Graham, you’re drunk. Go home.” It was true—his words were slurring, his limbs loose with drink. He smirks at you, taking a drag of his cancer stick and puffing it directly at you. Your hand snaps to your nose to try and cover the horrendous smell.

“Nah,” he breathes. “I’m here with Celina, see’s a pretty nice lookin’ broad don’t you think? Not as good of a fuck as you, but, hey, I take what I get.” His expression shifts to hidden anger and Simon takes a heavy step forward before he can finish the rest of his sentence, hands shifting to grasp his biceps harder. Those browns simmer with low ferality—a warning.

The air gets heavy.

“Pretty good little lie you spread about me gettin’ that shit from Stacy.”

“That was a lie?” You drawl lazily and watch your Ex’s eyes flash with rage. But he should know you don’t take shit from him anymore. “Oh,” your fingers tighten over your flesh and make you sound stuffy. “Maybe I heard wrong, you’re right. You don’t have Chlamydia.” You glare. “It was Gonorrhea, wasn’t it?”

“Bitch!” Graham barks, moving forward, but before anyone can realize it, Simon already has him shoved back with a stone-like push to your Ex’s chest.

“Not smart, Mate.” The former soldier utters, arms falling back to his sides. The party by this point had entirely halted in sharp gasps and bated breath. 

Graham’s beer bottle shatters as it hits the ground, the grass not able to absorb the way it slams down to dirt. Your wide eyes stay stuck on Simon’s figure, who’s now entirely hiding your view of your Ex—the wide expansive back that shows the writhe of his shoulder blades and how his spine shifts under the tight shirt. 

Your hand lowers from your face.

“What the fuck?!” Graham spits. “You made me drop my fucking drunk, man!”

“Be thankful that was all, yeah?” Simon’s dead voice is a cold chill on a winter evening. Any sane person would turn and leave immediately. “Cut your losses.”

No one breaths for a long minute, and you can see the other new mechanics inching closer from the sides. All of the locals are deep into the scene, fingers to their lips in surprise. There’s going to be talk tomorrow—the bar will be busy. 

“Graham,” you try to sway the pig-headed man once more from behind Simon. “Go home.”

“So this is what I get,” your Ex spits, head trying to peek over the larger man’s frame to look at you. Simon’s hands clench into tight fists. “I’m with you for years and this is how you treat me? I gave you everything!”

“Those are years that I never want to think about again,” you say with a stiff finality. “And it’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever see me worrying about where you are or who you fuck.” 

Knowing that the situation is over and done with, Simon takes a single step forward and leans into the man. 

“You heard ‘er,” he levels, unblinking. “Scatter.” Simon’s accent made it sound more like a threat, but maybe it was. 

Graham growls and takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring Simon down. 

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” But all he does is turn sharply on his heel and stomp away, crossing the street to his truck before he opens and closes the door with a violent slam. From across the way, Celina gasps and calls his name, but the engine has already started and Graham is down the road with a roar from the exhaust. 

Everyone is watching you and Simon, and the staring peels back your skin until Simon grumbles and grabs your arm. 

Blinking in shock, he only gives you a moment to steady yourself and slip on your shoes before he drags you inside the garage. You huff and look up at him as you close your sketchbook–trying to not look at those tattoos again. Your finger wanted to trace them—to study the ink down to the layer of skin where it ended and became red flesh and weeping veins. How far up his left arm did they go? Did they only stay at his forearm, or up to his shoulder?

Inside he lets you go, head slightly tilted to the outside as the sounds of hushed whispering pick back up; hurried and filled with electricity. Simon grunts, blinking. 

A heated silence encompasses the two of you, and as your eyes lock, neither can speak for a moment. 

“Sorry about that,” you glance at your feet. “Should have guessed he’d show up and do something.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon crosses his arms again, boots righting themselves. “That’s not your fault that some bastard can’t act right, yeah? Forget about it, it’s all nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have to be involved—”

“Bloody cut it out, would you?” Simon glares, brows pulling in. “I said it’s nothing.”

He was very passionate about this, it seemed.

You sigh, shaking your head before a tiny chuckle makes the mechanic blink in confusion. “Suppose I can call you my guard dog now, huh?”

“Piss off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand while your eyes narrow down. Simon's own crinkle along the edges, lowering his hands to push them into his pockets. 

A second leads into another, but neither of you has any particular interest in re-joining the others, even if Soap is smugly passing looks and Price smirks into his drink. Gaz fixes his hat while he tips back a beer bottle, hiding a glint of amusement. 

Simon’s voice lowers, seeming to hover closer. 

“You alright, then?” You nod, face heating up as you stare at his shadow-tainted visage and how the face-covering obscured him from your eager eyes. 

“I’m used to his drama. I have no problem giving it back.” Simon hums, October browns glinting like Halloween lights. 

“Seems so.” He pauses, and pushes out a joking, “Not surprised, Sunshine.”

“Good, Brown-Eyes,” you lean back on your heels and smirk. “I’d be offended if you were, with all we’ve been talking to one another.” 

“Getting familiar, Bartender?”

“Of course, Mechanic. Haven’t you heard?” He tilts his head, prodding you on as his eyes soften that candle-like smidge. “I keep everyone’s secrets—and you still have to tell me yours.”

Simon chuffs a low chuckle, and the fabric of his mask pulls as he shakes his skull. “Maybe one day, yeah? Need to stick ‘round to know ‘em.”

Then perhaps this town was worth wasting away in.  

—

“Bastard won’t cause any problems, will he?”

“No, no, he’s too much of a coward to try and get back at anyone. He won’t do anything.”

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @aldis-nuts, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[mishoarts]

Few differents between Canvas and Original :[What we know so far]

1-Bus graveyard gang were a little older (16)

*Aiden had a rented van to drive,

2-

Ashlyn's parents weren't military, they worked in a family friend's restaurant.

--Ashlyn used to work as a dancer on Saturdays ( she's still under the age but the owner allowed her because he knows how much she likes dancing, as long as she covers her face )

3- Ash's parents design 

(Mike fans how you feelin rn )

4-Ashlyn

Ashlyn was more like an introvert who hates socializing than someone who just doesn't like people(and kinda a little shy lol)

However, she still had that "done with everything" energy ✨

5- Witch Curse

In canvas, the curse didn't start with the sorrel weed house, it's originally from a trap in the witch house 1642 

*there wasn't a tour guide (no jasmine) they went in all by themselves

And unlike O. Ashlyn hearing phantom noises since childhood, C. Ash started hearing them in the witch house -(and got possessed immediately)-

6- Colored speech-bubbles:

Ashlyn > green

Aiden  > yellow 

Tyler  > brown 

Taylor  > orange 

Logan > blue 

7-Aiden :

Instead of our lovely cupcake we have in Original, Canvas Aiden was known as the crazy psycho of the school who no one dares to get near him (except Ben ofc), -- like a suspicious evil weirdo --

BUT the funny thing is that C.Aiden fears hights while O. Aiden is suic/idal careless who likes jumping (lmao)

8- Teacher

Instead of Thomas, it was a normal kind teacher called Mr.T, who tried to push Ashlyn to socialize.

9- T twins

-changed race, 

Tyler's personality was a little different ( less grumpy)

Sadly, the available Canvas chapters ended at this panel before the website moves to Original, so that's all what I know (if you know anything else tell)

END OF WHATEVER THIS WAS, THANKS FOR READING 🩵🫡

[ All Canvas credits to Red ]

____________________

I had to make this so you can have some background information before I post random translated panels.

In case you don't know where I got these, there're 9 chapters from canvas translated to Arabic on some unofficial website.

Some panels have a weird font type, that's just my hand writing I didn't have that time to edit them 🗿🤚🏻

__[ This took me too long to make pls like 🫠]__

[theprissythumbelina]

So You Want to Write about Horses: Color Edition

Well, your knight better not be riding in on a white horse, because that horse is actually grey! And what do you mean a brown horse? Is your cowboy's faithful horse sorrel or chestnut and what does it matter?

I can help.

(Part 4! Enjoy this post? Want to know more? Check out So You Want To Write About Horses Part 1 and Part 2 and So You Want To Write About Horses: Medieval Edition)

Lets begin with base horse colors:

This is fairly easy. All horses are either red-based or black-based. The other colors of horses are all modifications on these two basic variations. A plain red-based horse is a chestnut horse. If you live West of the Mississippi river, you would call this horse a sorrel. Same thing.

A plain black-based horse is a black horse.

Easy, right?

Genetically speaking, the choice between a black or a chestnut is controlled by the Extension gene, represented as E/e. A black horse is created when the genetics are either EE or Ee, as the Extension gene is dominant. A chestnut horse can only be ee, the regressive form with no black hair expression.

However, black horses are actually not that common, relatively speaking. Most horses are some form of chestnut, ee, or a bay.

The bay horse is a variation on a black base. They have black manes and tails, black on their legs, and red or brown bodies. A bay horse is created by the Agouti gene (A/a), which changes the expression of the Extension gene (E/e). So a horse with EE AA will be a bay horse, like above. A horse with Ee Aa will also be a bay horse, exactly the same. In order for a horse to be black, they must have a dominant Extension gene and a regressive Agouti gene, EE aa or Ee aa.

Chestnut horses have no black in their coat, so the Agouti gene cannot affect them. They can be carriers, however, and make a bay horse when paired with a black horse. A chestnut horse could be ee aa, ee Aa, or ee AA, and look completely the same.

Congradulations, you now know horse color genetics! Now for the fun ones.

Dun Genes

If you've ever seen Spirit, Stallion of the Cimarron, you know this color

^This is the actual colt that Dreamworks animators modeled from!

Dun (D/nd1/nd2) is a gene that modifies all base coat colors. It can modify black, creating a black dun/grullo horse, it can modify bay, creating a bay dun, and it can modify chestnut, creating a red dun. In all of these variations, the body of the horse is lightened, the mane, tail, and legs are dark, and the horse has 'primitive' markings, including an eel stripe down the back, darker face, and leg bars.

If you notice, dun has three variations! D is the dominant form, so any horse with D is a dun of some kind. Nd1 is a variant in the same gene that gives the horse similar markings, but it is not dun, and will be over powered by the dominant D version. Nd2 is a horse with no dun factor, so no markings or lighter coat. Dun horses can be D/D, D/nd2, D/nd1. A horse with non-dun factor (and look similar to a dun) can be nd1/nd1 or nd1/nd2. A bay, black, or chestnut horse will be nd2/nd2.

Cream Gene

Another gene diluting color is the cream gene, which you may know from the famous horse of Roy Rogers, Trigger

Trigger is a beautiful example of a palomino, a red-based cream dilute. As you can see, Trigger has a pale mane and tale and a gold colored body. Cream (Cr/Prl/-) is a dilution gene, or a hypomelanism gene, meaning it prevents red color in horse hair. Any red on a horse will be lightened. Chestnut horses, being all red, will have their entire bodies, mane, and tail lightened. Bay horses, with red hair only on their bodies, will have the body lightened, but the black mane, tail, and legs stay black, creating a buckskin horse

But wait! That horse looks exactly like the bay dun horse! Yes. Yes they do. However, buckskins do not have eel stripes, leg bars, or darker heads, and are a completely different gene. In fact, you can mix the two get a cream dun (Dunskin). It might be a slightly lighter dun.

Because a black horse has no red, black horses with the Cream dilute stay black, IF they have only one version (Ee aa Cr). Cream is an incomplete dominant gene, meaning that two versions makes the effect of the gene even stronger. Double creme dilutes are Cremellos, and they are very pale (but not white!)

The double creme dilute overrides all the other genes. They are still there, but the horse is so pale, you can't see them. A variation of this color is the perlino, a horse with a recessive dilute gene called Pearl (Prl/-)

Pearl is recessive, meaning that one copy does not change the horse's coat. Two copies creates the perlino, and because Pearl is on the same gene as Cream, a false cremello can be created by a horse with one cream gene and one pearl gene. Crazy, right?

Now, there are so many more genes, but lets skip ahead to some patterns.

Horse Patterns

These are technically not colors, but rather genes that selectively turn off color in certain areas to create a coat pattern in horses. The most important of these are Tobiano, Frame, and Appaloosa genes.

Tobiano is the gene for the coats of Paint horses (a color breed with a registry) and one of the genes for pinto horses. Pinto means any horse with large splashes of white, which includes the Frame gene, also known as Overo.

Both of these horses are Pintos, but only the lower one is an American Paint Horse, or Paint, and the top one has the Tobiano gene (TO), while the bottom has the Frame gene (O). A horse can be double Tobiano (TO/TO), Tobiano and Frame (known as Tovero) (TO/O), but a double Frame horse will die an early and painful death, due to Lethal White Factor.

Lethal White Overo is when two Frame horses are bred together and the foal receives the O gene from both parents. The foal can survive birth, but has malformations of the intestines that are incompatable with life. ALL affected horses die within days of birth.

Appaloosa horses are a very interesting horse. Technically, Appaloosa refers to a breed, developed by the Nez Perce tribe in the Pacific Northwest. Appaloosa is thought to come from "a Palouse horse", the name of a major river in the tribe's area. When the tribe was forced on a reservation, most of the horses were slaughtered or given to local white settlers, leading to many Appaloosa horses becoming merged to the Quarter Horse breed. As a result, most people use it as a color term.

Nancy Wak Wak (Umatilla) on an Appaloosa, 1937. Oregon Historical Society Research Library, 018041

The genes responsible for the Appaloosa pattern is the Leopard Complex, controlled by an incomplete dominant gene (Lp/-), which turns on the complex when present, and turns it off when absent. Several other genes control the amount of white, the type of white, how big the spots are, ect. One Lp turns the complex on, but two Lps creates a mostly white blanket, or a fewspot coat.

This horse has double Lp. The horse above it has one Lp, creating the many spotted coat.

Not all spotted horses are Appaloosas! In Denmark, the Knabstrupper is a breed of horse with no relation to the Appaloosa, but with the same gene creating the same spotted coat. Completely different breed, different origins, but same genes.

In all of these patterns, the pattern can be maximal, or very visible, or minimal, and not visible at all. A horse can look solid colored, but be hiding a pattern gene. So if you want to make babies, test your horse's genetics first! You do not want to accidentally cause a genetic deficiency.

Finally, the famous white horse.

Grey and White Horses

Most 'white' horses are actually grey. White horses are very rare. Grey horses are called grey because they are born with a colored coat, but because of the Grey gene (G/g) they lose color as they get older. Grey horses go through many colors throughout their lives.

A grey foal and grey mother. Babies are born with the base color visible, but lose it as they age.

A dapple grey horse in the process of losing its baby coat.

A fully greyed-out horse at adulthood. Even all grey, the skin around it's eyes and nose is still black, because the skin underneath has not lost color, only the hair.

A white horse is born white, will always be white, and is never naturally any other color. The skin of a white horse is pink, because it, like the hair, does not have color.

Sodashi is a Japanese racehorse and a member of a super-rare white horse family. Several members of her family are pure white, due to a mutation that gives them extreme white pattern, much like with the Tobiano gene. Her relative, Buchiko, shows the minimal pattern that gives them their white color.

Same pattern, but maximal and minimal expression!

[lovewash3d-doll]

❀Pretty Words to Describe Hair Color❀

.…………………………………………………………………………

Here are some of my favorite (and most used) hair color descriptions in my writing! Descriptions like “flaxen” or “chocolate hair” aren’t really my cup of tea and there are a lot of prettier & more unique alternatives!

Noirette (Black Hair):

Midnight (darkest black)

Jet-black (darkest black)

Inky (darkest black)

Black velvet (soft, dark black)

Raven (shiny black)

Umber (dark brown)

Brunette:

Mahogany (dark brown w/ red undertones)

Sorrel (dark brown)

Bronze (brunette with shades of gold)

Chesnut (medium brown w/ coppery undertones)

Sepia (medium brown)

Hazel (warm brown)

Fawn (light brown)

Champagne (bright, creamy light brown)

Blonde Hair:

Caramel (coppery, dark blonde)

Golden (bright blonde)

Dandelion-haired (bright blonde)

Honey (medium blonde w/ coppery undertones)

Strawberry Blonde (light blonde w/ ginger undertones)

Sandy (light, ashy blonde)

Moon-blonde (platinum blonde)

Pearly/Mother-of-Pearl (platinum blonde)

Silver (platinum blonde to white)

Ginger Hair:

Maroon (black-red)

Burgundy (pinkish-black)

Crimson (dark red)

Russet (brown with red/ginger undertones)

Copper (warm ginger & bronze)

Auburn (classic ginger)

Amber (bright orange with gold hues)

XOXO,

lovewashed doll ❀

[najia-cooks]

Wood sorrel soup with green peppercorn and mint

The wood sorrels—sometimes called sourgrasses—are a group of extremely widely distributed edible weeds in the genus Oxalis. As their name suggests, wood sorrels have a distinctly tart flavor due to the presence of oxalic acid. The seed pods of the wood sorrels are crisp and quite sour, and are therefore sometimes called fairy pickles. Wood sorrel is a commonly foraged green which grows well in disturbed areas, woodland, lawns, and gardens; it may be used as a pot herb or a salad green, or brewed into tea.

This recipe is for a blended soup similar to schav (Yiddish): an eastern European soup made with common sorrel (Rumex acetosa), vegetables, and smetana (sour cream)—and to potage crème d'oseille: a French soup made with sorrel or other sour, foraged greens; broth; eggs; and cream. In my version of this soup, the bright, lemony sourness of wood sorrel is deepened with garlic, tempered with a non-dairy milk, and complemented by the fresh, earthy, citrusy notes of green peppercorn. A garnish of chiffonaded mint or green onion adds some herbacious sharpness that plays well against the fresh wood sorrel.

Recipe under the cut!

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Ingredients:

50g (1 cup packed) yellow wood sorrel

1 small sweet onion

3 cloves garlic, crushed

Margarine, to fry

Salt to taste

1 tsp ground green peppercorns

2 cups vegetable stock

1/3 to 1/2 cup non-dairy milk, to taste

1 Tbsp flour

Mint or green onion, to garnish

Besides common yellow wood sorrel (Oxalis stricta), procumbent yellow sorrel (O. corniculata), or slender yellow wood sorrel (O. dillenii), will also work.

All three species have leaves which are alternate (one leaf per node), trifoliate (three leaflets per leaf), and petiolate (attached to the stem by a leafstalk, rather than directly); have heart-shaped leaflets; and have yellow, five-petalled flowers. Leaflets open in the sun and close (folding downwards) at night.

O. stricta plants grow upright when very young, but are afterwards recumbent; each plant has only one root, so the stems are not truly creeping (sending down new roots at the nodes). Stems may have small hairs spreading away from the center. Flowers appear in branched clusters, usually from 5 to 7 per inflorescence. Pedicels (seed pods) are erect.

O. stricta roots once; if young and light, it is upright. If mature and heavy enough, it will lie recumbent along the rest of its length without rooting again.

O. corniculata plants are prostrate, spreading via overground stolons which root into the ground again at the nodes. Pedicels are deflexed (hanging down) or horizontal.

O. corniculata spreads along the ground; if you try to pull up a mature plant, you will note it is rooted at more than one point (if soil is available).

O. dillenii is sometimes considered a type of O. stricta. Plants are erect and may reach over a foot in height. Flowers usually appear in 2s, but there may be as many as 6 per infloresence. Stems have appressed (lying flat against the stem surface) hairs. Pedicels are reflexed (bent).

O. dillenii, upright with hairy stems and seed pods whose peduncles have a sharp bend in them, like an elbow. Leaves sometimes slightly reddish.

Instructions:

Wash wood sorrel in a bowl of water, then draw the plants out to allow dirt to sink to the bottom. Include leaves, stems, seed pods, and flowers.

In a large soup pot, melt margarine on medium-high. Fry onion, garlic, a pinch of salt, and half the green pepper until the onion is golden brown.

Add sorrel and heat until thoroughly wilted.

Add stock and simmer 10 minutes.

Whisk flour into 1/3 cup non-dairy milk; add the mixture to the pot and whisk. Taste and add another splash of milk if the soup remains too sour.

Add remaining green pepper and salt to taste. Simmer another 3 minutes or so.

Garnish. Serve hot or cold.

[whywishesarehorses]

BLM Mustangs for Sale - Rock Springs

These horses are part of the July 2024 Auction.

No, I don't know what they are feeding them. Also, note that the heights on some of these teeny tinies are from 2 years ago, meaning when they were 1-2.

3 YEAR OLD BAY FEMALE HORSE (1204) 14.3hh

3 YEAR OLD CHESTNUT FEMALE HORSE (1450) 12hh

3 YEAR OLD BROWN FEMALE HORSE (1559) 12hh

3 YEAR OLD SORREL FEMALE HORSE (1573) 12.1hh

3 YEAR OLD BROWN FEMALE HORSE (1581) 10hh

8 YEAR OLD PINTO FEMALE HORSE (3053) 13hh

4 YEAR OLD SORREL FEMALE HORSE (3560) 10hh

4 YEAR OLD BLACK FEMALE HORSE (6234) 13hh

9 YEAR OLD BAY FEMALE HORSE (6262) 14.1hh

10 YEAR OLD BAY FEMALE HORSE (6308) 14.2hh

4 YEAR OLD GRAY FEMALE HORSE (6332) 13hh

3 YEAR OLD SORREL FEMALE HORSE (6338) 14hh

4 YEAR OLD GRULLA FEMALE HORSE (6348) (i literally don't know what to tell you. )

4 YEAR OLD ROANSTRAWBERRY FEMALE HORSE (6362) 14hh

8 YEAR OLD PALOMINO FEMALE HORSE (6380) 14hh

9 YEAR OLD WHITE FEMALE HORSE (6393) 14hh

9 YEAR OLD WHITE FEMALE HORSE (6418) 14hh (yes, yes, clearly a palomino)

5 YEAR OLD WHITE FEMALE HORSE (6457) 14hh (and teddy bear ears!)

7 YEAR OLD SORREL FEMALE HORSE (6521) 14hh

6 YEAR OLD CHESTNUT FEMALE HORSE (6523) 14hh

6 YEAR OLD SORREL FEMALE HORSE (6524) 14hh

7 YEAR OLD BAY FEMALE HORSE (6531) 14hh

15hh7 YEAR OLD BLACK FEMALE HORSE (6533)

10 YEAR OLD BAY FEMALE HORSE (6551) 14hh

14hh6 YEAR OLD SORREL FEMALE HORSE (6582)

7 YEAR OLD BLACK FEMALE HORSE (6583) 14hh

8 YEAR OLD BLACK FEMALE HORSE (6603) 14hh

7 YEAR OLD SORREL FEMALE HORSE (6608) 14hh

6 YEAR OLD BAY FEMALE HORSE (6631) 14hh (she does have a tail, she's just flagging)

[st-armand]

Author’s Notes: Ha, yall thought that the Plug!Hobie fic was gunna be posted first, gotta keep yall on your toes. I finished this first so here it is <3 Also any content by me about Hobie his age is 21-24. Im also looking for people to beta read.

CWs: Mention of piercing gone wrong, suggestive, stealing, not beta read

 Random Hobie Brown Headcanons

He has/had more piercings, notably a pair of sub-clavicle piercings, a belly piercing and nipples piercings (I know other people headcanon him as having a prince albert, but god I know that shit hurts so we’ll be skipping for now). He took those out because they kept getting caught in the frayed fabrics of his clothing, and especially worse his spider suit.

His final straw was amidst fighting a foe, he sustained several injuries, but he was horrified looking at the ripped skin of his clavicle, frantically looking for the bar and the flesh still attached, he did, but it was deep in the crevices of his suit and didn’t find it until after repairing it.

That was enough to get rid of all his torso piercings.

Hobie is extremely anal retentive when it comes to the upkeep of his piercings though, every night, maybe except those he’s really incapacitated from battle. He spends so much time in the morning carefully soaking q-tips in saline to clean the puncture holes, if he can take the jewelry out to let it soak in peroxide for a few hours.

You both fight over the real estate of the sink and its mirror, until you ask (threaten) him to get you a vanity so you both can have space to get ready, he does and its gorgeous; a vintage one he found abandoned on a side street.

But this doesn’t stop him taking up vanity space.

“Feel pretty sitting here luv”

Hobie is of Jamaican heritage, I headcanon that his grandmother is his only living relative, and he dedicates so much time taking care of her in her old age, despite their arguments about Hobie being able to be free, and not held down by family. She knows she won’t have many years left, and she may want to embrace him in her love for these final years, but she also doesn’t want him to feel a great heartbreak at the loss.

That being said he visits her every few days, stopping by for some beef patties, jerk chicken, curries of all kind, taking home the bulk containers of sorrell and ginger beer, Grandma Brown doesn’t question how her lanky streetlight grandson has gotten so strong and fit over the last few years, or how he’s able to take the large crates back to his flat.

She has her suspicions and theories, but she would rather not pry if it could end in harm for the both of them.

When he’s off being spiderman, or doing shows and odd jobs, you take up the mantle, visiting Grandma Brown and aiding her around the home, Grandma Brown gets to sit back comfortably as you take over cleaning and seasoning the chicken, she trusts you to remember all the ingredients she uses to make Hobie feel like he’s still a child with how nostalgic the food makes him.

She genuinely loves having you around, but she also loves to tease her grandson, “Don’t know what you see in that boy, he should kiss the ground you walk on darling,”

 

And that’s not to say he doesn’t. The undercurrent of his unruffled attitude, is an adoration for you, he loves you in a way he can’t even put into words for his songs. He thanks whatever cosmic source there is for dropping you in his lap, like a starved dog given shelter, and cared for the rest of its life.

Sometimes you catch him staring at you deeply, teasing the inside of his lip piercing with his tongue causing it to wiggle around, youre locked into his penetrating gaze, you feel critically wounded by his affection, it always comes in sudden frothing sea waves, cooling your body, leaving you to yearn for the warmth of the sun that is his love.

 

Hobie isn’t the type of punk to wear sexually suggestive clothing, but he does use riskier photos of you or the both of you, faces obscured or cropped, and edited heavily with grain to make it look vintage, he takes them to a vendor he works with closely for band merch and has them screen print the design on shirts for the both of you, loves wearing them during concerts especially to ward off erratic fans.

 

You let Hobie pester you about getting a piercing, which you know you can’t handle the pain for, but you humor him.

“Luv ya need some metal on that leng face of yours” He’ll say every few weeks, despite knowing the answer, insanity is doing the same thing knowing the results won’t change, Hobie’s fine with being insane if it means maybe one day your resolve will crack and he can see you two with matching jewelry.

He often ponders about what gems and metals would look best, the color, the shape, the size, and how all these can complement that enticing face of yours.

 

Steals you clothes (duh not original, but considering my taste of clothes…), and I don’t mean a few pieces here and there, he actively searches for things that will compliment your wardrobe, and in the span of a few months together your closet has doubled in size.

One day you say you’re interested in latex, he’s going to barter with some craftsperson to get you a few items to experiment with, maybe a few gloves.

You say you want to be corporate goth (I don’t see people ever adding corp goth to their alternative reader fics) ? He’s nicking the most gorgeous pants and skirt suits he can find, getting accessories and sitting beside you as you customize the outfits together.

Like high fashion, Thierry Mugler or VW? He has no problems with linking up with Black Cat to get into stock warehouses and design studios to steal some, Black Cat teases him by saying ‘You owe me for this bug.’ But she gets compensation by nicking a bunch of clothes for herself.After the fact they bound off in separate directions carrying webbed satchels of merchandise.

You know he stole them, in fact youre proud he was able to do it with ease.

(He doesn’t tell you Black Cat helped him, you wrongly assume they are attracted to each other, but Black Cat is actually a lesbian, he’s seen her in costume as a spectator of a dyke march parade under the guise of ‘watching out for the community’, he doesn’t tell her he’s seen her sneaking off into a civilian woman’s apartment, he’s happy to keep the city safe enough for everyone to nurture love.)

You wear these outfits with pride, sauntering down the street as an orchestra of gawks, and stares fills the area, blown away by the complexities of the outfit, and attention to detail to every complimentary aspects of the look, the essence of slay cunt one could say.

When Hobie’s there walking alongside you, he lets a hand glide to your lower back, urging you to walk faster, whispering into your ear,

“Walk faster luv, don’t you wanna give them a show?”

And scene. Hope yall enjoyed these, I aint great at british slang so be patient and give tips!

Comments, questions, criticisms? Let me know!

Request are OPEN

[koffeesfancy]

Sorrel Ch. 1 | Letitia Wright x Reader

Summary: An American in London, you have recently graduated university with no job prospects so you take up a gig at a Guyanese bakery and become enthralled in the world of a regular customer. (shy!reader) (nerdy!reader)

Genre: Romance, fluff, angst

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 618

A/N: I'm going back and cleaning things up. The formatting has changed and of course, chapters progressively increase in length and quality as I get a feel for the story. I don't particulary like this first chapter, but too many people have already read it for me to completely overhaul it or triple its length lol.

It's not everyday one meets a celebrity, much less an Emmy nominee such as Letitia Wright. When Kerry offered to hook you up at her aunt's roti shop, she briefly mentioned a few of the people who happened to come through on the occasion- mainly Guyanese British influencers and entertainers seeking a taste of home. Letitia's name came up and was quickly forgotten. Your mind was stuck elsewhere in a land of bills and visa issues.

Yet now it seemed unreal. She stood by the entrance, picking up a few caramels and bottles of channa from the shelf. At about 5'5, she was a lot shorter than you'd have thought she was, but she looked effortlessly chic nonetheless.

Kerry's aunt Sharmin bustled out of the back. "Eh eh! Mi nuh see yuh in long long time!" she shouted, making her way from behind the counter to hug Letitia. You watched them embrace behind the lowered frames of your glasses, pretending to tie bags of pine tart. Letitia was beguiling. She wore a black linen button down that teased a glimpse of her clavicle with a matching pair of shorts and white sneakers. A pair of expensive looking shades sat atop her shaved head. The gold jewelry on her neck and hands glimmered in the light.

At some point you must have have given up the ruse of subtlety, because when they hugged again, Letitia looked up from Sharmin's back, across the shop, and straight into your eyes, a cheeky grin across her face.

You gathered your senses in enough time to feel some shame and play it off. As you busied yourself counting napkins, a figure stood in front of the register. "Hmmm, what shall we have today," you heard. Letitia leaned against the counter, her hands and chest inches away from you and her gaze turned upwards to the overhead menu.

You glanced around for help. Sharmin was already headed out the door for her errands and you knew you'd be alone for the next hour until Kerry's cousin clocked in.

"What do you like?" Letitia asked, her voice syrupy with a slight rasp. Her eyes were on you again. There was something so disarming about her presence and it made you a clammy, nervous mess. You stuttered through some vague, everything is good, sort of answer while your hands refused to find a normal resting position.

"Oh, are you American?" she exclaimed at the sound of your accent, her brown eyes lighting up in intrigue. "What're you doing in London?"

"Sch-school," you mutter. You silently prayed to die on the spot or for the ceiling concave to make this embarrassing moment end. Unfortunately for you, no one died and the roof remained intact. What's worse is that Letitia kept asking questions. "What are you studying?"

"Is that program at King's College?"

"Are you doing like a study abroad semester?"

"Where are you from in the U.S?"

"Wow, I was just there for a work thing! Have you seen the art museum downtown?"

The questions didn't stop and by the time she remembered what she came for, you'd already stopped breathing for a long time and filled your shoes with sweat.

"Hmmm, I'll take some tennis rolls and sorrel," she hummed. As you turned around to gather her order, you caught yourself thinking you saw her eyes slide down your body. You shook the thought out of your head and continued working. As if an Emmy-nominated actress would be interested in whatever pudge was hiding underneath your indie band tee.

Before leaving, Letitia stood at the door and asked another question across the room. "Oh, and what's your name, love?" If only the floor could swallow you whole.

Table of contents

Next chapter

[mousetoe-wc]

I Got bored one time awhile ago and made a list of every prefix plus some into organised sections so I thought I might as well share.

All the ones that aren’t cannon to warriors, yet at lest are bold

Describing names

Colours: red, russet, copper, golden, amber, yellow, green, blue, violet, pink, white, gray, black, ebony, dark, pale, silver, brown, tawny, fallow

Pattern, Texture + Size: spot/ted, dapple, speckle, freckle, brindle, patch, mottle, ragged, tangle, kink, bristle, fuzzy, curl/y, wooly, soft, sleek, little, tiny, small, slight, short, tall, long, big, heavy, crooked, broken, half, stumpy, shred, torn, jagged

Actions + Character: flip, pounce, bounce, jump, hop, crouch, down, low, drift, flail, strike, running, fidget, mumble, whistle, snap, sneeze, shiver/ing, shining, flutter, fallen, lost, rush, fleet, quick, shy, sweet, brave, loud, quiet, wild, hope, wish,

Other: claw, whisker, dead, odd, one, spike, fringe, echo, song, hallow, haven

Elements

Time + Weather: day, night, dusk, dawn, morning, sky, sun/ny, moon, storm, lightning, thunder, cloud/y, mist/y, fog, snow, blizzard, ice, frost, dew, drizzle, rain, clear, wind, breeze, gale, shadow, shade, bright, light,

Earth/Water/Fire names: stone, rock, boulder, slate, flint, pebble, gravel, sand/y, dust, mud/dy, meadow, hill, rubble, river, ripple, whorl, float, rapid, shimmer, lake, swamp, marsh, wave, wet, bubbling, splash, puddle, pool, creek, fire, flame, flicker, flash, blaze, scorch, ember, spark, ash, soot, cinder, smoke

Plants

Trees: alder, aspen, birch, beech, cedar, cypress, pine, elm, willow, oak, larch, maple, bay, rowan, timber, bark, log, wood, twig, acorn, cone, seed, spire

Berry/Nut/Fruit/Herb: juniper, elder, sloe, holly, yew, mistle, bramble, hickory, hazel, chestnut, nut, apple, cherry, cranberry, olive, pear, plum, peach, chive, mint, fennel, sage, basil, mallow, parsley

Flowers: aster, poppy, primrose, rose, bluebell, marigold, tansy, pansy, briar, cherry, daisy, dandelion, daffodil, tulip, violet, lily, myrtle, thrift, yarrow, heather, lavender, blossom, bloom, flower, petal

Other: leaf, frond, fern, bracken, sorrel, hay, rye, oat, wheat, cotton, reed, pod, cinnamon, milkweed, grass, clover, weed, stem, sedge, gorse, furze, flax, nettle, thistle, ivy, moss, lichen, bush, vine, root, thorn, prickle, nectar

Animals

Mammals: mouse, rat, mole, vole, shrew, squirrel, hedgehog, bat, rabbit, hare, ferret, weasel, stoat, mink, marten, otter, hog, wolf, hound, fox, vixen, badger, deer, doe, stag, fawn, sheep, cow, pig, lion, tiger, leopard, lynx, milk

Birds: robin, jay, cardinal, thrush, sparrow, swallow, shrike, starling, rook, swift, dove, pigeon, crow, raven, duck, goose, heron, wren, finch, swan, stork, quail, gull, lark, owl, eagle, hawk, kestrel, buzzard, kite, hoot, feather, bird, egg, talon

Fish, Reptiles + Amphibians: pike, perch, pollack, trout, tench, cod, carp, bass, bream, eel, minnow, fin, snake, adder, lizard, turtle, frog, toad, newt

Bug type Names: bug, lady or ladybug, moth, spider, ant, snail, slug, beetle, bee, wasp, dragon or dragonfly, bumble, worm, maggot, cricket, fly, midge, web, honey

Skyclan + Warriorclan: Bella, Billy, Big, Harry, Harvey, Snook, Ebony, Monkey

[tixdixl]

Happy Birthday Sorrel - TWST Ficlet

A/N: It's Sorrel's birthday!! I wanted to do something for the special baby boy's birthday, even if it's small. This is also a friendly reminder that all the NRC students definitely belong there LMAO.

Word Count: 718

Characters: Sorrel Madrigal (@ramshacklerumble ), Kingsley Tyr, Cater Diamond, Trey Clover

CW: None that I can think of.

Flickering green candle light illuminated the foyer. And as the freshman stepped out into the top of the stairs, his gaze swept across the room. With sweets lining all of the table space and the banner hanging from the stone banister, the space permeated with birthday cheer. And with the atmosphere as it were, Kingsley quickly reaffirmed to himself that he would leave as soon as his mission had ended.  Many fae and a few humans were spattered around the room. His eyes landed on his intended target, the Diasomnia junior standing between two Heartslabyul students. A small glass sat between his small, shaking hands, clutched to his chest as he slouched forward. The trio seemed to be enjoying the moment, though debatable from the perspective of the Diasomnia Junior - Sorrel Madrigal, the birthday boy. 

As Kingsley began to descend towards the party, his boots thunking rhythmically and militantly against the stone planks, several sets of eyes followed his every step. Widening with fear, he noted how their pupils dilated as they recognized his presence. Yet, just as he’d done before, he processed their stares as encouragement - their fear recognized as a sign that he’d held himself just as he intended. Practically commanding the room as he walked, the clamor dwindled into a faded silence. And when he reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes locked with the deep brown eyes of the birthday boy. He noted the sweat slipping down Sorrel’s cheek, and the tension in his shoulders. But just as he had begun to suspect that the junior feared him just as anyone else, the junior smiled.

“Oh, hey, Kingsley! I’m really glad you came,” Sorrel greeted him with a warmness the freshman hadn’t expected. 

The freshman nodded to him in greeting before responding verbally with, “Happy birthday, Madrigal,” as he held out a carefully wrapped box toward the junior. Though meticulously and cleanly wrapped, the decorations were plain and arguably barren. But nevertheless, the present had been prepared, and Sorrel’s name had been cleanly etched into the tag with blue ink. 

All three juniors stared at the box, shocked by its literal presence. Sorrel’s eyes repeatedly flicked up towards Kingsley’s gaze and then back down again at the box.

“Well, are you going to take it?” the freshman asked, low key tired and irritated with continuing to hold the box out in front of him.

“Ah- I mean, is that–”

“A present for you, yes.”

“...oh, thanks. You didn’t have to,” the junior replied sheepishly.

“Consider it a show of my appreciation. You act more like a housewarden than our actual housewarden, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed,” the freshman stated bluntly. And as the words left his mouth, the room became completely consumed by silence. Many sets of eyes stared, and he could feel them burning into his skull. The diamond card soldier’s jaw dropped, agape from the words that left Kingsley’s mouth. Simultaneously, the Heartslabyul vice-housewarden’s eyes widened. In fact, his glasses even slipped a bit, now sitting crooked on his face. 

The smallest of twitches pulled the corner of his mouth upward. The faintest hints of a satisfied smirk lingered on his face. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted out of this. And hopefully, this interaction would continue to evolve as planned.

After a moment’s pause, Sorrel reciprocated the smile. His own faint, and also equally full of unspoken satisfaction. The junior let out a nervous laugh, seemingly processing everything that was unfolding before him. With shaky hands, the junior reached out and handed his glass to the Heartslabyul vice-housewarden. He took the box from Kingsley’s hands, and tucked it under one of his arms. All the while in the brief silence, he reclaimed his drink from the vice-housewarden’s grasp. 

“Thanks,” the junior continued to smirk, “I’m just trying to do your best.”

“And that’s better than the efforts of some others in this dorm. Take it as you will. And again, happy birthday.”

Without another word, the freshman clasped his hands firmly behind his back. Having completed exactly what he had set out to do - and to a greatly satisfying success, he marched straight back up the stone stairwell, leaving the party and everyone in it behind him. The solitude of the castle hallways greeted him with their familiar, calming stature. 

~~~

Tag list: @ramshacklerumble @elenauaurs @rainesol @starry-night-rose @inmateofthemind

@cyanide-latte @blithesharem @theleechyskrunkly @thehollowwriter @boopshoops

@lumdays @the-trinket-witch @twstinginthewind

Lmk if you want added/removed