how to snake

Sri Nag

Even at age five Satya knows snakes are dangerous. That you shouldn’t touch a cobra. But it’s bleeding and the faint gold bands in black seem to be fading away. So carefully, slowly, gently, she approaches it.

“Hi,” she says quietly, holding her hands open. “I’m going to help you Sri Nag.”

Carefully she picks it up, the small cobra not even twitching or hissing at her and that scares her a bit. How hurt is the snake? And what hurt it? Amma would know! She helped with the animals at the hospital.

“Amma! Amma!” she whisper-shouts, drawing her attention. “I found a Sri Nag and he’s hurt!”

“Satya, what…” Amma stares at her in befuddlement before her gold eyes go wide. “Satya! You know better than that! Sri Nag could have bitten you,” she scolds. “But put him down on the table. I will get bandages and we will try to help your friend.”

Satya gently puts Sri Nag on the table and accepts the small cup of water her Amma hands her. It’s clean, and she feels guilty that some of the clean water they use for drinking is going to Sri Nag, but they have to help him, and dirty water won’t do.

“Now, dip the cloth in the water and make sure it doesn’t get too wet. Then wipe away the dirt and blood,” Amma instructs. Satya carefully follows the order, hands steady, and tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

Slowly she wipes the blood away, and she can see Sri Nag’s injuries aren’t bleeding too badly any more. She puts down the cloth and looks up at Amma, who’s smiling slightly at her efforts.

“Now, here is how you bandage Sri Nag,” Amma says, and Satya just as carefully follows that order. “Once you have him wrapped, I will make a box for him to heal in. You must catch him several mice a day so he can eat and rest and heal. Do you understand?”

“Yes Amma!” Satya chirps, still focusing on bandaging Sri Nag.

“Good.”

For three weeks Sri Nag rests in his little hospital box, Satya dutifully feeding and watering him. Appa isn’t too happy with her and Amma giving Sri Nag some of their precious clean water, but he still lets them. Priti won’t go near Sri Nag after he hissed at her, her older sister declaring the snake ‘mean’ though he never hisses at her or Amma.

But once three weeks pass, the injuries are finally gone and Amma declares Sri Nag healed. Satya picks up his box and follows Amma to one of the run down parks, an area that may have once been an apartment complex before the Crisis began. She gently tilts the box over and Sri Nag slithers out, but pauses after he’s completely out.

For a moment, it feels as if he is studying them, but Satya doesn’t think that’s right.

“Bye Sri Nag! Be safe!” Satya says, waving to him as he continues to slither away.

“Come along Satya, we must get home before dark,” Amma says, taking her hand.

(“It seems a debt is owed.”

“Yes, it seems to be so.”)

No Promises (m)

“God,” Jungkook spits out, “We told you we worked at a club before, why are you so surprised?”

You roll your eyes at his statement. “You never told me it was a strip club. What were you guys thinking?”

Synopsis: You never thought that your two closest friends would work at a club one day, especially as strippers. Now all they want to do is give you a private show.

[cr.]

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Yoongi // stripper!jungkook & stripper!yoongi

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 7.5k

Includes: sub reader, switch jungkook, dom yoongi, daddy kink, dirty talk, strip tease, oral & face riding, exhibitionism/voyeurism, masturbation, blowjob/throat swab, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, frottage

A/N: for @itsrainingmin and her thirsty ass… happy birthday hoe. the sin for this is toned down a few notches, huhu. thank u @addictedtonamjoon & @seoulscapes for dealing w this dilemma and keeping me on track LMFAO

tossed in some mxm action for u as well booboo ,’:^)


“You guys are… what?” You take a moment of silence to yourself so you can process the newfound information, mind dazing with lucid imagery of your two friends being…

“Strippers,” Yoongi clarifies nonchalantly. “Why are you so surprised?”

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5

I spent way too much time on this piece of shit and I regret everything by e

That’s more of a continuation to that old comic than an answer to the ask but whatever man though I’m pretty sure the kids (sans Wendy) would probably laugh at Acno rather than comfort him lmao

bonus:

it took Rogue a week to convince Cubellios not to eat Frosch

cant-stop-the-jellyfish  asked:

How many snakes are in Medusa's hair

No idea, but it’d be dank if instead of snake hair she had shake hair and you could just saunter up and slurp some vanilla shake from the top of her head before she turned you to stone.

2

@probablyfakeblonde said I can finish some of her sketches (thank you so much, I know I say it a lot, but honestly I needed a way to destress and this was a perfect!)

I did a lot more then I expected, so I’ll have to post them separately.. 

anonymous asked:

What are some of your favorite pet portraits that you've drawn?

Gosh I’ve done 300 pet portraits by now so there’s definitely A FEW. Here are some of my best recent ones (not including this round’s commissions).

anonymous asked:

What if Harry Potter, the chosen one, had turned out to be a squib, how do you think history would have turned out differently?

It was Mrs. Figg who suspected first.

She noticed many things, sitting on her side of her fence with her cats chasing butterflies and nuzzling her ankles, Mundungus and the other watchers dropping by for tea now and then.

Mrs. Figg noticed that Petunia was a nosy bit of work with insecurities hanging from her every harsh angle. She noticed when Dudley learned the word MINE– the whole neighborhood noticed that one. She noticed that Vernon glared at owls.

She noticed that when Petunia gave Harry a truly horrendous haircut one year, it grew back in at a normal rate. Harry was uneven and weird-looking for ages, hiding under beanies when he could.

When Mrs. Figg had Harry over for carefully miserable afternoons of babysitting, she noticed nothing moved that shouldn’t. He didn’t accidentally make flowers out of fallen leaves, or levitate anything during tantrums, or turn toys funny colors.

Mrs. Figg called up her mother, interrupting the wizarding bridge game she was winning against the nursing home staff, and asked her how she had known, decades back, that her youngest daughter was a squib.

When Albus Dumbledore received Mrs. Figg’s letter he wrote back a polite thank you and then went to talk with Minerva McGonagall, who inhaled sharply in horror when he told her the news.

Finally, McGonagall gave a gathered sigh. “I suppose we can ask one of the wizarding families to homeschool him,” she said. “We can’t have the Boy Who Lived not knowing about his own world.”  

“No, he’ll come to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“Hogwarts is not a place for–” Her voice fell. “–squibs, Albus.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry must be taught.”

“Be taught what, Albus?”

But Dumbledore just sighed and offered her a lemon drop.

Years later, the owls and the letters came to 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys ran, dragging Harry with them, and the letters and one stubborn gamekeeper followed– none of this would change with a magicless Harry.

When Hagrid asked Harry in that little cabin on that little rock in the middle of the sea if weird things always happened around him, Harry couldn’t tell him about vanishing glass and setting captive snakes free, about ending up somehow on the school roof, or growing his hair out overnight.  

“Strange things always happen around you, don’ they?”

“Um,” said Harry, racking his brain. “Well… I live in a cupboard under the stairs…”

Harry could tell him about how snakes sometimes talked back, because that had never been Harry’s magic, but when he did Hagrid just blanched and changed the subject.

Hagrid held out hope, even against Dumbledore’s quiet warning explanations, until they made it to Ollivander’s Wands. Harry marveled at Diagon Alley, got his hands shaken in the Leaky, pressed his nose up against shop windows. Hagrid watched the scant boy– looked at James’s messy hair, Lily’s eyes, Harry’s own wandering gaze– and he wondered how this boy could be anything but magical.

In the wand shop, Ollivander said, “James Potter, yes… mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand for Transfiguration.” He said, “And your mother, Lily…  strong in Charms work, ten and… yes, ten and a quarter, willow, swishy.”

Harry picked up stick after wooden stick. They remained just that– wood with bits of feather or scale or hair. Harry wondered if the creatures who gave these offerings were still alive– if they were given or taken. What did it do to your wand when they died? He waved a maplewood wand (unicorn hair, eleven inches) and a gust from the door opening blew some receipts off the counter.

“Well, said Ollivander. “I think that’s as close as we’re likely to get.”

He sent them out with the maplewood. Hagrid bought Harry a snowy owl and a fudge sundae and tried not make it too obvious that these were condolence gifts. The next day the Prophet’s headlines read: The Boy Who Lived– A Squib? Various magical medical experts weighed in on how it might have happened. Fingers were pointed at childhood trauma, at his upbringing, at his family lineage.

Harry still met Ron on the train– Ron was still smudge-nosed and Harry still bought enough candy to share. When Molly had helped him through the platform entrance, her voice had been a little softer, a little more pitying– but it was still better than the laughter that had been in his aunt and uncle’s voices when they dropped him here to find a platform they didn’t think existed.

Hermione Granger dropped by their compartment, looking for Neville’s toad, but got distracted when she spotted Harry. “I’ve read about you! In my books, and in the paper,” she said. “You’re the Boy Who Lived, and you’re a squib.”

Harry sank down in his seat. Ron hid Scabbers under a candy wrapper.

“Squibs have never been allowed in Hogwarts,” Hermione announced. “According to Hogwarts, A History, squibs try to sneak in now and then– the furthest anyone’s ever gotten is to the Sorting Hat before they got found out.” At eleven, Hermione still believed in expulsion being worse than death. Her voice was thrumming with sympathetic horror.

“But they already found out about me,” Harry said, alarmed.

“It’s alright, mate,” said Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. Oy, Granger,” he added. “What’s this Hat? Fred and George were trying to sell me some story about having to fight a mountain troll to get your House…”

Harry sat back and watched the countryside rush by. Yes, he was Harry Potter– his aunt’s useless sister’s useless child, the boy in the lumpy hand-me-down sweaters who named the spiders who lived in his cupboard. And here, in new world, he was apparently useless too.

When they got to Hogwarts, Harry clenched his fists and stood in line with the other first years. He barely twitched at the ghosts or Peeves, just stared ahead and thought about how far he would get before they turned him around and sent him back to Vernon and Petunia.

They opened the Great Hall doors. They called the first years one by one. Harry clenched his teeth and walked up to the Hat when they called his name.

As he turned to sit down on the stool, he really caught sight of the Hall for the first time– the hovering candles, the big wooden tables, the black robes that swallowed the light. Translucent ghosts gossiped with the students beside them. The paintings on the far walls– were they moving?

Harry’s jaw had unclenched, falling open. His fists curled open, curving around the stool’s seat as he leaned forward to stare. If this was it, if this was as far as he’d get in this world, then he wanted to drink it all in. The candles were floating, in mid-air.

The Hat dropped down over his eyes and blocked out the light.

Well, said the dry voice that had been hollering House placements all night. What do we have here?

Ron had been begging for not-Slytherin. Draco from the robes shop had been scornful of Hufflepuff, desperate in his disdain. Neville had begged for Hufflepuff, sure he was not brave enough for Gryffindor.

Please, thought Harry. Don’t send me back.

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