tight and compact!

superbdivinity  asked:

why do the mushrooms you reblogged grow in a circle? ;o

Those are best known as fairy rings. Mushrooms are actually the fruiting bodies of a much larger underground organism, an underground network called mycelium.  

The purpose of the mushrooms is to release spores (seeds), which will drift away in the wind and land on some dead plant material somewhere and a new colony of fungi gets its start. The first batch of mushrooms will be clustered in a tight, compact spot, not a ‘fairy ring.’ But eventually the fungi will run out of food, which means the mycelium has to constantly expand to find new nutrients. 

If all directions have a roughly equal distribution of nutrients the fungus will probably spread out in a circular pattern. There will not be any mushrooms in the center of the ring because the food there has been exhausted.

You can just imagine that this fairy ring just keeps getting larger and larger and larger, and some of these ‘fairy rings’ are actually so huge they span hundreds of miles. Scientists are of the opinion that this is one organism, the largest and most ancient organism on Earth! Scientists say ‘forget all that rubbish about bristlecone pine trees being the oldest living things on the planet.’ Giant redwood trees are just youths if you compare them to the age of the one fungi organism that comprises these large fairy rings.

In Plain Sight

This is a drabble going out to @cinensis as a thank you for his continued support. Sorry it took so long, and hope it is much enjoyed!

It starts with a kiss.

It’s still early on. Serizawa has become bolder, his fingers cupping Reigen’s cheeks without him even having to put them there. He had been keeping count of their kisses, but he’s lost track now. Because Reigen likes kissing, and he tends to pull Serizawa in when they pass each other in the halls of the office, when Serizawa gets ready to leave for the day, even when he’s just too close for too long.

This time, he’s walked him home after dinner. Serizawa has no idea how to ask Reigen if he can come in. Part of him wants more, or even the possibility of more, but even after a few weeks of dating, the end of the night is just that: the end.

Reigen opens his mouth a little, and Serizawa can feel his tongue. It’s touching his, and, encouraged, Serizawa moves his palms down to Reigen’s shoulders, to his chest.

He squeezes.

When Reigen pulls back with a gasp, his eyes are wide, but not in a particularly pleased way. He looks the way Serizawa does when he is on the verge of panic, and Serizawa is going to say something, but then…the moment ends. Reigen flicks his hair back, yanks Serizawa back in and kisses his forehead. “See ya at work, Seri,” he says, and Serizawa doesn’t even get the chance to say goodnight before the door is opened and closed, leaving him alone with the pinching, terrible awful that is thinking he has done something wrong.

Then, it’s a photo.

Reigen has tasked him with the work of going through boxes of old papers to be filed or thrown away, and at the bottom of one of the oldest and dustiest is a paperclip with several old photos. Most of them are people that Serizawa doesn’t recognize, but then he comes to one that stands out. A blonde girl with shoulder-length hair is smiling at the camera, holding a small chocolate heart, and she looks…so familiar.


Reigen doesn’t glance up from the magazine he is flipping through. “Hmm?”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Nope. Only child. Why?”

Serizawa holds up the photos. “I found these while going through one of these boxes. She looked like she might be related to you. Are these family photos?”

That gets Reigen’s attention. He puts the magazine down and gets up, narrowing his eyes at the photo. He’s silent, pensive, glaring at the photo for a moment until he drops it into the discard pile. “Don’t know how that got in there. Nothing important.”

Serizawa swallows and doesn’t say anything until it’s time for lunch.

Finally, it’s an accident.

Serizawa makes Reigen tea. It’s hot, of course, and he warns him of such, but Reigen doesn’t listen. This time, though, a stack of papers on his desk serves to not only keep him from putting the cup down as he burns his mouth but also causes it to slip, spilling onto his shirt. His face contorts with pain as he staggers to standing, quickly removing his jacket to start unbuttoning the shirt.

“Arataka!” Serizawa cries out, his psychic power suddenly flaring in a bright rush. It clears off the desk entirely, papers flying, small items scattering to the floor. The cup and any remaining drops of tea that hadn’t already soaked into the dress shirt are flung into the wall, shattering.

They stare at one another.

“I’m so sorry,” Serizawa blurts, running to the bathroom. He soaks a rag in cold water before returning, and he is at Reigen’s side, pressing the compact against the red, swelling flesh.

Reigen seems to blink as the shock wears off, and his gaze wavers slightly. He puts his hands to Serizawa’s wrists. “It’s…it’s fine, Seri. It’s not your fault.”

Maybe it’s the movement of his arms, or maybe it’s because Serizawa is so close to him, but that’s the moment he sees the scarring on his chest. Twin marks on each pect. And it’s like a swarm of dust has been cleared between Serizawa’s ears.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Reigen whispers.

He looks up, and Serizawa knows that Reigen has seen him staring. Everything in his face is tight, compact, pained. Worried.

For maybe the first time since their relationship began, Serizawa takes a step and presses his lips to Reigen’s. They have shared other kisses, but Serizawa has never initiated one in the office. He makes it count, soft and still and tender.

“You never have to apologize to me,” he said finally, resting his forehead against Reigen’s. His mouth is dry, but he pushes on. “I love all of you. Even your impatience when it comes to tea, and your…fastidiousness about the office files…”

Reigen laughs softly at that.

“And I love everything about you that I don’t know yet. Nothing changes that. Nothing will change that.”

Reigen is silent until he pushes his head into Serizawa’s shoulder and lets out a long, deep breath.

Two nights later, when Serizawa walks him home, he invites him inside.

Kinktober 31st: Costumed Confessions (KageHina)

Sorry this is late, my dears. And there’s not an ounce of smut in it! But it’s so romantic it probably needs a warning anyway. ;D

Pairing: KageHina |  Word Count: 2.7k |  Warnings/Tags: school dance, Kageyama is a spoilsport, cuteness

“Tobio, what the hell are you doing?”

Tobio turned to the exasperated voice, adjusting his volleyball in his hand as he navigated through the bottleneck of costumed students and into the gym. The cavernous room glowed with black lights and orange string lights, covered from floor to ceiling with white and green cobwebs and plastic creepy crawlers and fake blood and ghostly shapes. Everyone he saw was either barely dressed or barely recognizable under their terrifying masks, but Tobio spotted Hinata easily.

A small figure elbowed his way through the crowd, wearing a white and black striped sweater with black gloves, jeans and combat boots. Skin tight clothing gave away compact muscles, the shape of strong shoulders and solid thighs, a lean waist. He was wearing a black mask with his costume, but there was no use hiding the brilliantly orange hair that stood out on his head like a dandelion on fire – if Kageyama hadn’t recognized him from his body, he’d certainly know from his hair. Hinata glowed in UV purple, teeth glinting as he smiled and shook his head.

“Hey,” Tobio said over the music as Hinata approached him, tilting his head at the shape of Hinata’s jaw, which seemed more noticeable now that his big eyes weren’t so distracting behind the mask. Hinata punched him a little too harshly in the arm, nearly knocking his ball out of his hand, and made a gesture with his hands as if to emphasize, What the actual hell?!

“I told you to come in costume,” Hinata grumped, folding his arms.

Tobio looked down at himself. He frowned at his collared jersey and gym shorts, his knee pads and socks. He’d worn everything except for his volleyball shoes, choosing instead his black high-tops. It wasn’t like he was going to let a bunch of people step all over his expensive gym shoes and get them dirty. Tobio looked back to Hinata and raised his eyebrows.

“I’m a setter,” he supplied. “What are you?”

Keep reading




School Grade: 6th (11 years old)

This character is a combination of 糸 thread, and 宿 lodge, here working phonetically to express “arrange.” Together this gives to “arrange threads.” Some scholars see its present meaning as borrowed, while others view it as an extension of drawing together loose/slack threads and thus making them “tight” and “compact.”

Sunday Respite - Mechanical Catalogue of Clockwork Creations and Constructs

Sometimes, people will just refuse to do what you want them to do for free. It’s a dour reality of the up-and-coming tyrannical overlord who dumped his Charisma stats in preference for pure power and strength. So, I present a concept unto you; what if, instead of spending all of that effort in finding willing servants and minions, you just made your own? Smart, right? No more arguments over working conditions, sweat shops, poor pay (if any), or constant employee turn-over rates due to constant adventurer infestations. The time and resources you spend in thumbing through some old books and manuals and cobbling the constructs together is time you save on negotiating contracts and conducting interviews.

Here is a brief selection of some top-of-the-line, lovingly hand-crafted golems and machines for a discriminating customer of magical prowess such as yourself.


Banton stands, arms crossed, beside the entrance of his newest kitchen. He takes in a deep breath and admires the single, granite block sitting in the centre of the room. He exhales with a smile. Footsteps rap across the stonework in the hallway behind him. He turns and hurriedly steps aside, pulling the lower draping cloth of his crimson robe out of the way. Vento, his partner, is concerned before he even enters the cold, empty room. He peers through the doorway, his stretched neck nervously followed by his narrow frame. He gestures to Banton for an explanation as to how he spent upwards of 20,000 gold on an empty room and a solid stone cube. Banton presses a finger to Vento’s lips and shushes him. He pulls his sleeves far up to his elbows and stands square to the centre. With three, sharp claps, he relaxes his stance and leans back on the wall and onto Vento’s shoulder. The cube separates into a hundred expanding compartments and slots, all revealing jointed limbs of metal tubing and springs. Each twisting arm is adorned with a piece of cutlery or cooking utensil; silver whisks, a fan of differing volumed spoons, a crystalline stew pot, and a blue-flamed torch sparked into ignition. Fully unraveled, the tinkling machine is ready to fully prepare any of fourteen-thousand recipes and ingredients within the hour.

“How would you feel about some celebratory cake? I think you’ve deserved it.” Banton says with a creeping smile to his utterly astounded and wide-eyed partner, watching every whirling, polished contraption with absolute joy.


This thick, wooden door of glossed timber and black-metal supports has a single ringed handle on either side. If approached by an unrecognised guest, the wood will buckle and twist to form the grouchy face of a displeased, elderly man, snarling at the intruder. It will begin to interrogate the arrival, asking for pass-phrases, code-words, or messages that they would like to leave - even stretching its mouth into a letter box for postal services. However, if the intruder is belligerent and refuses to cooperate, the door employs several defence mechanisms. If the handle is grasped for, it slides around the door, away from the reaching hand like it was playing with a child, If force is applied, the door reinforces its face with a dozen vertical, iron bars. If the door is charged, it grows its face into a barbed nest of wicked spikes to welcome the attacker with the comfort they deserve.

Mirror Image

This human-height shape of flat glass is reflective an intensely polished. It stands like a cut-out of a featureless, humanoid design, with two legs, two arms, a torso and a head. It can be instructed by its creator to perform standard, incomplex maneuvers and motions, all of which are done within two dimensions, never bending its form beyond a flat sheet. However, if asked to, the mirror itself can copy its master’s form, creating an exact, two-dimensional replica of their appearance, which will act as they wish, go where they wish, and do what they wish. If one were to circle around the image, it’d move to always face the perceiver, but changing the image they see so that it remains consistent with their position. If they were to move round the back, the mirror would simply adjust its shape and reflection so that they would think they see the master’s back and sides, rather than just the reflective face of the mirror itself.

Armsman’s Corset

A tight, compact corset of black, metallic scales and gleaming buttons ties around the lower torso of the creator. Once fully strapped in, the corset shimmers for a moment and grows a second pair of elegantly lithe arms and hands up to the shoulder, These hands are not entirely under the creator’s control and act autonomously, often to continue work whilst they sleep or protect them from harm or danger that may approach within reach. They can also be given weapons or items to utilise as best as they can so as to assist their master. They will use a bow and arrows whilst hunting, a set of cutlery whilst the master is reading, or hold a book whilst the master is eating.

Walking Forge

This giant of a construct is made from rough-worn stone. It has gnarled rough limbs that resemble dangling stalactites, toeing pointed divots into the soil wherever it wanders. In the heart of its broad, hefty chest is the open mouth of a roaring forge, holding several lengths of metal, heated orange by the flames within, ready to become blades and plate alike. Its head is a dusty, rusted anvil, with its bright, pearly eyes shining out beneath heavy, creaking eyelids, which can be removed and laid upon the ground. It follows its master around wherever she may go, humming as they walk like an echo shaking down a cavern.


Pixie x

Marichat May Day 13: Sin

marichat may masterpost

Just a silly scene where an older Marinette and Chat Noir continue a tradition of good food and good company, only things get a little… steamy.

Rating: T

This is kind of a sequel to what I wrote for day 1, and although it references back to that drabble, can be read on its own. Food notes at the end!

She can’t really remember when this became their routine, but they’ve been baking and eating treats together for at least six years now. She does remember that he used to be very, very bad at this - burning pans, dropping ingredients, and generally getting underfoot (as cats are wont to do) - but now he can even make his own sweets without destroying her kitchen.

Today they were having tiramisù and hot chocolate on her balcony. For the tiramisù she soaked the ladyfingers in café serré and amaretto to keep the flavors intense, but sweet for her kitty. Honestly, she thought, shaking her head a little, that boy loves sugar more than life.

By the time he arrives a lush, intoxicating scent was wafting from the table his princess had set out. A piping hot mug by each chair and two servings of tiramisù standing by, with sweet Marinette lost in her sketchbook. Mustering all his feline grace, he glides behind her and places a palm on each shoulder, breathing Bonsoir Purrincess into her ear. She jerks back, feet drawn up into the chair and face plastered with shock while Chat Noir beams down having achieved the desired reaction.

“Chat Noir, you sneak!” she exclaims as she throws her cushion at him. He raises his arms over his head, laughing. “Oh no you don’t! This. Is. Not. Funny,” she punctuates each word with a whack from her sketchbook, but he can’t help it. He adores the fire in her eyes when she’s angry, it feels like he’s found home when she’s focused on him alone…

Marinette decides a change of tactics is called for so she grabs his plate and holds it high, standing up in her chair to say, “Fine! If that’s the way you want it I guess you won’t be needing this, will you?”

His eyes fly wide and he hastens to appease her, “I was wrong Princess! I’ll never do it again, so spare me!” He flings his arms around her knees, looking upward with his best model-trained kitten eyes. Marinette maintains her stern facade for another beat before the giggles begin to spill down upon him, joy spreading to her eyes which now shine like stars. Feeling like he’s been hit by lightning, Chat Noir can only gape, dumbstruck while she brings her hand to her mouth and peals of laughter pour like pearls from her lips. His heart seizes at that image and he grips the material below his bell thinking, no, this is home.

Eventually they get around to actually sitting and Chat Noir is finally able to taste his tiramisù. The moment that first mouthful begins to dissolve, his costume ears point straight up and Marinette could swear she saw the very auroras dance across his eyes.

“MmmmmmMari~ This is so good. You have to taste it!” He places his left hand on the table for support as he reaches out to her, offering up his fork. Silly kitty, I made it. Of course I ate some already, she thinks. Parting her lips anyways, she leans across the table towards him and promptly knocks over his hot chocolate. The steaming liquid sloshes over his bracing hand and Chat Noir drops his fork in surprise.

“Oh, Chat! I’ve burned you!” Marinette shoots up, rattling the tableware while the chocolate-covered hero shakes his dripping hand.

“Don’t worry Princess, the suit absorbs pretty much everything,” he assures her, but Marinette has already sidestepped the table and gently cups his gloved hand in her own bare ones.

“I know.” She speaks softly, but with power behind her words, gazing straight into his eyes, piercing, he feels, even beyond his mask.

Never breaking eye contact, she raises his limp hand towards her and trails her tongue down starting from the tip of his ring finger. Her eyes flutter briefly as her lips brush past his miraculous, landing for an instant on the back of his hand. Meanwhile Chat Noir, one of Paris’ great superheros, is experiencing complete and utter panic. Reminiscent of Marinette’s collège days, he can’t keep a single thought straight, jumping from one track to another, spiralling out of control. (Does she like me? No, there’s no way this mea- her tongue! Her to- I wish I wasn’t wearing gloves…. What?! No! Get a hold of yours- We should be dating. I should ask her out for smoothies and then-)

As Chat wrestles his thoughts, Marinette continues her ministrations. Flipping his hand so the palm is facing her, she kisses right above his costume cuff, at the base of his palm, gliding up, following his fate line to twine her tongue between his middle and index fingers. Sipping dribbles of hot chocolate she takes in his thumb, slurping off the sticky drink, pulling back until her mouth  comes free with a slight pop. Chat Noir lets his thumb linger, a feather caress on her bottom lip, enraptured by her heady gaze. Her lidded eyes bore into his masked jade as their breath intertwines, heavy with emotion. Each lost, wandering the woods and sky, their dancing hearts are the only measure of time.

With his hand still held to her cheek, the corner of her moistened lip quirks up, the motion tugging at his thumb.

“What’s the matter, mon minou?” she lilts, “Cat got your tongue?” The moment she says the words a jolt runs up his spine, urging him to move, leaving him yearning to just   lean     forward.

Staggering a little, Chat Noir swerves toward the railing and only once he clambers safely atop it does he turn to face his lady. His eyes flare at her, but his eyebrows are twisted with questions and longing. His lips part slightly, then slam together as he drops off the roof and into the night leaving Marinette to watch his shadow scurry away, nearly tripping two roofs over. She could have laughed then, but Marinette simply followed him with her eyes and licked her lips which slowly settle into a smouldering smirk.


When he met Nino for lunch two days later, Adrien was still feeling quite dazed.

Scratch that.

His head was a total mess and he considered it a minor miracle that he made it to the meeting at all, much less with matching socks and both his shoes attached. He couldn’t really hear anything Nino said. He just nodded along as his brain flipped between replaying those beautiful, confusing moments on her balcony, and racing off in fragmented thought-trains towards impossible possibilities.

Adrien’s blissful, crazy dream world came crashing down when Nino started raving about Marinette’s miraculous baking.

“Dude, you have never tasted tiramisù so rad. I swear, it’s out of this world!”

Finally alert, Adrien feigned mild interest, mumbling Is that so? as his pulse thrummed through his veins.

“Totally! And get this, according to Marinette it even means ‘take me to heaven’ in Italian. Cool, huh?”

Everything else faded out until the only thing left in his world was Marinette. He watched as her sinful lips moved ever so slowly, carefully forming the words…

Take - me  - to - hea - ven

First, I’m sorry if any of the food terms were inaccessible…

Tiramisù is an Italian desert made from ladyfingers (biscuits) soaked in strong coffee until they soft and spongy, then layered with cream and topped in chocolate. Adding alcohol is optional, but since it’s not cooked you will be eating whatever amount you put in. It’s an amazing desert and y’all should try it! I had Marinette use café serré (French equivalent of ristretto shots) because they are more concentrated and less bitter, while amaretto is a sweet, almond flavored liqueur that apparently goes really well with coffee.

Italian: ristretto “limited” “restricted”;  amaretto “a little bitter”; tiramisù “pull me up” (or if you believe mameshiba) “take me to heaven” which could be a liberal translatino going off of “pick me up” “cheer me up” “lift me up”

French: café serré “strong coffee” (serré on it’s own being “tight” or “compact”)

Quick French culture reminders:

The drinking age is 18. Since the kids are 14-15 in the show, I placed this 6 years later so that they’re ~20 years old.

Collège is the equivalent of middle school/junior high.

the signs as leslie knope compliments

aries: ann, you beautiful, naïve, sophisticated newborn baby

taurus: you are a beautiful, talented, brilliant, powerful musk ox

gemini: he’s like a brilliant, sexy hummingbird

cancer: she’s as respected as mother Teresa, she’s as powerful as Stalin, and she’s as beautiful as Margaret Thatcher

leo: oh, ann perkins, you perfect sunflower

virgo: you have turned into a very beautiful, wise, and fertile government employee

libra: ann, you tricky minx

scorpio: ben, your heart’s in the right place; your heart and your butt

sagittarius: he’s got a tight, compact little body like an italian sports car

capricorn: as a candidate, i appreciate your strategic mind. but, as a woman, all i care about is your slight but powerful body

aquarius: you’re man-genius with a taut, narrow frame like a sexy elf king

pisces: ann, you cunning, pliable, chestnut-haired sunfish

anonymous asked:

9 and 55. HanxLeia. Gravity or Lynnie 'verse?

#9 - “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you.”

Eventually she would grow to come to them in the middle of the night when she was scared but for the very first nights she would cry in her little bed like a baby, shrieks then whimpers, like she didn’t expect anyone to come get her, which broke her heart. Once, she laid cold and shivering in her own urine, making soft sounds of distress until one of them had finally stirred. Those early nights were the hardest. 

This time, one of the first times, they both wake up with a start to the sound of a piercing little shriek that quickly softens into quiet mewling, almost like a kitten – what Leia would later describe as a kind of adaptive self-soothing and what he would rather describe as the most awful kind of sound he knew. This time they look at each other – still blurry with sleep, still a little unused to actually sleeping in pajamas – and then Leia nodded and kissed his cheek and was out the door, trying to take confident steps that masked the anxiety she felt. The baby – the girl – was fine, there was nothing wrong with her, she would make it okay, she could make it okay. 

She could hear Han following along behind her anyway, his steps slow and cautious, lingering a few feet from the door respectfully as she poked her head in. “Lynnie? Honey? It’s Lei – I – it’s your mama…”

The baby had cocooned the blankets around her so that just her head poked out and she raised it slightly to peer, her face tearstained, back at her, gripping the blankets protectively, before burrowing back in completely.

“Can I come in? Hm? Puis-je entrer?” 

Nothing again, so she paused but came in anyway, lightly sniffing for any chance of sick or urine – nothing there… She went up to the side of the bed and very cautiously touched where she assumed was the top of Lynnie’s head, causing her to recede further instinctively. 

“Sh-sh, no-no, it’s only me,” Leia said, and as she said it she realized her voice was a whisper. She let her fingers slowly, delicately trace the quilt. “C’est moi, c’est Leia. Ta mama.”

Nothing still, but the mewling started again, and Leia sighed, kneeling down on the floor so her head was at her bedside. 

“Shhh…” she tried, and she slipped her hand under the quilt and found the soft, downy hair, tucked into wispy braids, and stroked it gently. “Shh, it’s only me, it’s okay… it’s only me…” And the mewling let up, slightly, filling her with faint confidence. “I know, I know… it’s only me…”

After a few long moments, she tugged the quilt slightly and, finding no protest, very, very delicately crawled up inside of it, holding it tight around her like walls, letting it cover her head, creating another world with her body. Finally getting a good look at the little girl in the center, sucking her thumb desperately who, like a magnet, snapped against her waist, arms holding her tight, legs too, like a koala hold, squeezing almost to the point of discomfort. Her tight grip saying everything Leia had feared not to be true: Thank you, I want you here, you make me feel safe.

Leia let one hand rest on the baby’s back and the other on the back of her head, playing with her hair. Inside the quilted cocoon everything looked sort of magical, otherworldly, womb-like, all blues and purples, something like space. The baby clinging to her desperately like even though she hadn’t called or come or asked, it was still true that all she’d wanted was for her to walk through that door. That she’d been waiting for Leia, just as Leia had been waiting for her. 

She wondered how her body might feel, to a baby: she was all bones and angles, all tight muscles and compact attempts at curves, her hair a web of prickly points and aerosol spray. The furthest thing from a mother’s. 

And yet. 

Stroking her hair and murmuring inside the quiet cave of the quilt, “Sh-sh-sh, I’ve got you… I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you, okay? I promise you, I will.”


What is it about Pinguicula that is so endearing, so enthralling, so addicting? They have such a wide array of form, size and color (and don’t even get me started on their flowers). Each butterwort offers up a juicy leaf, spotted with dew. Some are long and thin like slim fingers pointing to the sky, others are round and translucent, bending down to touch the soil while others form tiny, tight rosettes of compact leaves like something you’d see on a fancy cupcake. They range in color from pale white to soft green to purple to every shade of pink imaginable.

We find them beautiful even when their leaves are speckled with the bodies of the insects they’ve lured to their deaths. Like some sort of mythical Greek God who is all vengeance and crushing power but whose perfection and sleek allure we can’t help but worship.

For the person who falls in love with Pinguicula; there is almost no end to collecting. Each one is a spectacular little piece of art and we want every one we see. Thank goodness they are relatively small and it is easy to build up a nice collection. Plus, who needs all that furniture in their living room? Really, can’t we all just huddle around the terrariums and watch the Pings instead of the T.V.?

St Marina (c.1640-1650. Francisco de Zurbarán (Spanish,1598-1664). Oil on canvas. Museo Carmen Thyssen Málaga.

Using fairly tight, compact brushwork, Zurbarán lends brilliance to the colours and sharpens the contours by silhouetting the body against a dark background with an intense source of light that emphasises the flesh tones. St Marina wears a wide-brimmed hat and an white chemise with a frilled collar, bodice, skirt and overskirt. She holds a long rod, possibly an allusion to her martyrdom, and a prayer book, a symbol of learning and loyalty to the Gospel.

Zootopia Fan-story ENTRY 6 TUMBLR- Lonewolfwriter

Jack got home at 5:55pm, clocking out of the ZPD at exactly 5:30pm and taking the 747 train, he did nothing on the train but stare out the window, moving only once when a fox had taken the seat across from him, he moved not out of fear but to get a vantage on the fox had he tired something, he never did.

Jack’s house was on the outskirts of Zootopia, He lived in a large penthouse bearing on the edge of the rainforest district and tundra town, a place he chose for one very specific reason. The small splashes of rain on the window kept his ever going mind in a state of peace. The place was immaculate, it looked more like a display home, as everything was in a need tidy order, a vision into Jacks rolling stone lifestyle. He had a bar that stretched the entire right wall and a television unit that came down from the ceiling like a home theatre system, his kitchen was fit for a king and the wooden floor sparkled, except for one dark and damp patch by the window.

He opened the window behind the couch, pushing the couch out of the way, to stop it getting wet and sat on the wooden floor, where it was damp to the touch, small splatters of water landing on his shoulder and back, blown in by the westerly winds of Tundra town, turning the usually warm water of the rainforest district into sharp dagger of freezing cold water, he sat cross legged as if meditating in the exact place the water was landing, He lay his phone, wallet, keys and badge on the coffee table in front of him “Ryan Goodfur, Vergil Thumpfoot, Steven hare, Ryan Goodfur, Vergil Thumpfoot, Steven Hare” he repeated the names to himself over and over again, until he was shaking cold, the water drenching his entire uniform.

Almost ten minutes had passed by the time he was soaked to the core and shaking like a dog. Usually he would spend hours in this location, a daily ritual, a punishment, but today was different his phone buzzed, he closed his eyes tight before opening them and getting up. As he walked to close the window his paws sludged and squelched in his shoes. He picked up the phone, his fur hung from his face completely saturated and he was like ice to touch. He flicked open his flip Phone, the bright light illuminating his face

“Hay Jack, are you picking me up or are we going to meet somewhere?”

Jack blatantly stared at the phone, the names recited taking most of his focus, he exhaled and his thumbs went to work

“I will pick you up at 7:00pm exactly, see you soon”

Jack threw his phone onto the couch and proceeded to take his top of jumping into the shower, the sudden change from icy cold to steaming hot felt good, his body was all scarred up. He stood in the shower one hand on the wall, his eyes starring at the drain, the names slowly creeping into his thoughts. “It happens to often” thought Jack when he realised that 15 minutes had gone by, in what felt like seconds. He turned the handles of the shower and stepped out wrapping a towel around himself, his body radiating steam as he stepped out into the cold of the appartment.

He walked into a walk-in wardrobe that was the size of a whole room and from top to bottom, shelves and coat racks were laden with the finest materials and clothes money could buy. He dressed in his best attire, he was a city rabbit by nature, he wore a long, Grey, pin-stripe button up top with black trousers. He held a tie to his neck then shrugged it off throwing it over the bedhead “to formal” he muttered, he tightened his cufflinks and spray on his cologne before he went and starred himself in the mirror “looking sharp Savage” he muttered pleased with himself. He got to his garage opening it up, inside sat a soft roof sports car that was gloss black with rims to match “Hello my darling” he smirked” have you missed me?” He clicked his car key and the door opened vertically, he jumped in repositioning the mirror. He looked to his watch, and realised he still had fifteen minutes “easy time” he laughed before kicking the car into first gear and speeding off.


Judy had knocked off exactly when Jack had at 5:30pm

They had been in the lockers together throwing there belt into their lockers. It was quiet and awkward but Judy spoke first “so…I’ll see you tonight” she stated punching his arm playfully, Jack had starred back at her his aquatic coloured eyes seemed to pierce Judy and make her weak at the knees, but something was off, each time he would look at her, it was as if a part continued through her and glared into a void that seemed to drain from his very being.

“Jack… do you like me?” was the last thing Judy had asked him blushing

He leaned in and had kissed her cheek softly “More then you could imagine”

“ARGH, Get a room you two!” blared Bogo who had been in the corner of the locker room changing his top. Both their faces going pale and embarrassed

“See you tonight” yipped Jack a little bashful, shutting his locker, exiting left

“Likewise sir” Judy replied, having gone completely red at the cheeks, closing hers and heading in the opposite direction.

Judy was waiting out the front of her house, she was a country gal by nature and that’s how she would dress, she had a simply Pink flannel shirt on, and blue denim jeans, a wallet residing in her back pocket. She raised her wrist to check her watch it read 6:59pm she looked up the road to see an extremely expensive car coming toward her and in typical Jack fashion he stopped in front of Judy at exactly 7:00pm sharp.

He pulled up beside Judy the window lowering with a slight humming noise, “Hello Ms.Hopps”.

“Hay Jack” she stifled a little nervous.

“Jack looked her up and down “absolutely stunning” is all he said before getting out of the car and offering his elbow “shall we?”

Judy wrapped her arm in his, she could feel his muscle it was tight and compact, extremely dense for someone of his size. Jack walked her to the opposing door of the car and opened it for her gesturing her in, she sat in the leather seats smiling up at Jack who looked like an angel faced god standing above her, Jack closed the door gently moving to the other side and jumping in the driver’s seat. They began down the street “umm, where are we going jack?” quizzed Judy.


Judy gasped “NOOO, the Manarottis, but that’s one of the nicest places in Zootopia!”

Jack smiled “I know, But you know….” He started scratching the back of his head nervously, nervousness was a very new feeling for Jack. “I really like you Judy” he explained, with a shrug of his shoulders. Judy, felt warm for a moment before she pursed her lips seriously, “don’t think I haven’t forgotten, you still owe me an explanation”

Jack who was driving and starring at her, sighed heavily, his eyes dropping to the centre console “Judy…it’s over now… can we just have a nice night? I don’t want to think of work”

Judy rolled her eyes “Fine, but I need you to calm down, you scare me when you get like you did today”.

Jack was taken aback, he felt horrible and mortified at his action “I’m sorry Miss Hopps, sometimes-“ He stated looking back at the road “sometimes I just can’t help it”.

When they arrived at Manarottis, the line was up the street, “We’ll never get in” stated Judy with a flick of her paw, Jack however didn’t cease in his advances, he drove into the valet parking and got out, being extra sure to go and open Judy’s door for her, she got out and felt instantly underdressed, Jack noticed her hesitation and leaned in whispering deep into her ear

“You’re still the most gorgeous one here” before removing his mouth from her and again offering her his arm, she took it happily and with a sudden confidence and they began their way to the front door, Jack flicking his keys last minute at the valet, a middle aged zebra dressed in the typical red valet uniform.

 Jack walked directly to the door at the front of the line “Darryl” he stated with a nod. The security guard, a gigantic Rhino, who was dealing with people complaining about getting in turned with a smile obviously recognising the voice before seeing who it belonged to.

“Jacky boy, where have you been?” he bellowed his voice deep and loud

Jack smirked again his confidence radiated “Busy, secret business, you know how it is?”

Darryl nodded in agreement “Indeed I do” Darryl noticed Judy by his side “and who is this beautiful young lady” he asked leaning down  

“Darryl, this is Judy, Judy this is Darryl an old secret service friend”.

Darryl shook Judy’s paw, and looked her over, “Hay you’re that cop from the news” he pointed out laughing loudly about recognising her.

Judy nodded a little nervous and replied with a simply but drawn out “yeah!”

Jack noticed Judy’s grip on his arm tighten, he knew she felt a little shy and continued straight to the point. “You got that table for me?” Jack questioned with a raise of his eyebrows

“Right this way Jack” stated Darryl walking them inside.

The night passed on Jack and Judy flung back and forth about work and their past, training as rabbits to be something other animals thought was impossible. Different missions Jack had been on, even divulging some of the missions he was sworn oath not to speak of.

By 11:00pm dinner was long out of the way and seven bottle of wine littered the table, Judy was flushed red and Jacks shirt had come unbuttoned they each held the others paw.

“Soo” hic* “So then I said, you’re not a rhi-NO, You’re a rhi –YES” Jack and Judy bursting into hysterics, as they had been all night. They were both crying at the joke, the laughter slowly subsiding before Jack looked to his watch “My, my, it’s almost 11: 30pm” he state a little shocked at how quickly time had passed. “You got somewhere to be tomorrow?” she teased.

“Uhhh work?” replied Jack as if she should have known

Judy suddenly began laughing hysterically on her own.

“And what’s so funny, officer Hopps?” he asked slurring a little.

Between gasping breathes of laughter she finally got out “Tomorrows, Saturday and we have the day off”

Jack sat stunned for a moment his intoxicated brain, trying to remember his size 11 font roster on the inside door of his locker, before he too burst into laughter. They were laughing and laughing, when an older Antelope walked by in a suit holding a wine bottle

“More wine Mr. Savage?”

Jack waved his paw “No, no, we must be getting on, it’s late you know” he and Judy both began laughing about the in joke they shared, The antelope simply bowing his head “yes sir, will you be wanting the bill”

Jack cleared his throat his laughter subsiding “On the card, Ralphy” he stated pulling out a platinum card “and give you and the boys a little extra, for the amazing service”

“You are most generous, Mr. Savage” stated the antelope taking his card to pay the bill.

Judy sighed “This was a good night. But Jack, how do you have all this money?”

Jack grinned “I’m honest and hardworking”


On the other side of town Nick sat in his dreary basement, he was meant to move out he had been saving for month, only three more pay checks and he could have rented the place just down the road from Judy, he was even planning on the getting the two bedroom unit they had on offer, because he knew Judy’s place was too small and was going to ask her to join him.

His head sat in his hands, he hadn’t moved for hours, when it became too much he looked up at the mantle where pictures of Judy and him resided, his collar beeped once then twice, his temperature on the rise, when he exploded “ArGhhh!” he shouted getting up and flinging his arm across the mantle knocking all the pictures to the floor before getting a shock, his shoulder shooting up like that would protect him.

He breathed heavily, knowing he needed to stay calm, his lips had pulled back in a snarl. All the pictures on the ground had shattered but as he starred at them longer and longer he was overcome by sadness, his lips slowly making their way over is teeth to hide them. He looked back up to the nearly empty mantel piece to see only one picture remained, he lifted it up, it was a picture of him and Judy side by side, the first day they had become partners, the first day Nick got his badge, he remembered it like it was yesterday, he couldn’t tell who was smiling more, himself or Judy, his proudest moment and when the picture had been developed he had walked up to Judy and asked her to sign it for him.

“You’re my hero Carrots” he had stated, “Sign this for me will ya” she had grabbed a thin permanent marker and had written in the corner “In Zootopia, anyone can be anything” with two X’s at the end. The quote was a play on the first time they had met “har-har, Carrots, reeaal original!”

Nick starred longingly at the two X’s and slung his head over the mantle, the picture dangling from his grasp. “In Zootopia, anyone can be anything” he murmured to himself, and like he was sent a sign, there was an open newspaper on the ground, the page was in the job section. He looked to the picture of him and Judy, then to the paper “anyone can be anything”.

Nick sighed out the frustration then took a deep breath, he had a plan, “Well okay” he stated positively.


Judy and Jack finished paying and made their way to the car, they stopped short and both looked at one another then at the car.

“I can’t drive” chuckled Jack. Holding the keys out for Judy who pushed them away with her paw.

“Well I can’t drive” responded Judy placing her other paw on her chest. They sat bedazzled on what to do when Judy huffed “Come on Savage you can crash at mine!”  

They went to walk away when Savage put his paw up, a symbol for Judy to stop “one second” he stated running back to the car and opening it, he then locked it and ran over to Judy with something in his arms, he got to her and slung a black suit coat over her “don’t want my partner getting sick now do I?”

The actions and the words caught Judy by surprise and her heart sunk as she remembered that once, after a long shift together, Nick had thrown his coat over her “Don’t want you to get sick now do I Carrots” he had stated holding her close and wrapping his fuzzy tail around her to add extra warmth finishing with a wink before walking her all the way home.

Judy leaned into the coat her eyes going moist, Jack who had his hands on the Jacket lifted her face realising she was almost in tears.

“Is something wrong Ms. Hopps? Did I do something?” he asked as sober as he could.  

Judy was confused “No Jack you didn’t…” she began losing her answer, she didn’t know what to say, or think anymore and so she grabbed Jacks unbuttoned shirt without warning and pulled him in kissing him, “I don’t want to think of you anymore Nick” she convinced herself trying to run the thought of Nick from her head so he wouldn’t ruin such a perfect evening.

The Kiss was long and made Jacks ears shot up and he blushed, before composing himself and returning the kiss, before Judy pulled away “Come on, It’s cold”.

They reached her apartment and opened the door, both of them made for the bed falling over onto the bed Jack all but passing out and Judy not far behind. She rolled into him in a hug “Thanks for a good night” she expressed snuggling in tight.

“You’re welcome” replied Jack wrapping his arm around the small of her neck and pulling her into his arm nook. The whole room was spinning before both of them fell asleep.   

Judy was comfortable and warm, “Goodnight Nick” she murmured unaware, before falling asleep also.


Manly Monday: Beauty in Exile

There Are Two Types Of Rugby Players Whom I Find Incredibly Attractive…Locks And Scrum-Halves, Because Of The Height Of Each. Locks Are Often Well Over 6′5″, While Scrum-Halves Are Often 5′9″ Tall. Locks Are Lean And Strong, While Scrum-Halves Have Tight And Compact Physiques.

Matt Symons Of London Irish Is Incredibly Sexy. Standing 6′7″ Tall, He Is A Talented Egg Chaser In The Lineout, And He Possesses A Quiet Confidence, Not To Mention A Killer Smile.

Give Me Wood, Baby!

Date Night - Klaine [PG-13]

McKinley High’s resident skank Kurt Hummel decides to take his nerdy boyfriend out on a special date. (~3k / AO3 link)

Thanks to livwholikestv for betaing and everyone else who gave me their input and ideas on twitter. klainesupremist I hope this makes you smile because you deserve to smile always and at all times.

Keep reading




School Grade: Junior high school

This character is a combination of 臤 a non-general use character meaning both “hard” and “wise,” and 糸 thread. Here 臤 is a phonetic element expressing “entwine” while lending a meaning of “hard/compact.” Together with 糸 this gives “threads tangled in a tight not,” leading to the meanings of “tight/compact” in a broader sense. It can also be used figuratively to refer to a highly strung state of nerves. 

anonymous asked:

Could/have you mentioned anything about how Stage/Theatre/Stunt Combat experience doesn't equal actual fighting experience? I do modern fencing, and I've had many people assume it's the same as stage combat and I've just had to correct them. Someone in stage combat suggested doing a bout with me, and I had to explain that I'm trained to go for the head and she has no mask to protect it. Also, there's the fact that they're doing it for show, whereas I'm landing hits.

We mention it occasionally, when we recommend media. Stunt fighting, but especially stage combat with swords, isn’t real combat. It’s designed to look good and be visible, especially to those in the back rows, and that means the strikes are huge especially in context to traditional fencing. Real combat involves a lot of tight, compact, and minute movements because it wastes less energy. This is especially true of fencing, which you know. Fencing is direct, where one advances on a single line, searching for or creating openings. It’s also very fast and contains the recognition that someone could hurt if the proper precautions aren’t taken.

Whereas stunt combat is designed to be entertaining, and often involves a great deal of circular motion. Like I said, the moves are huge, with a great deal of swinging, and often leave massive openings in the defenses. The first fencing sequence between D’Artagnan and Athos in the BBC’s Musketeers is a perfect example of stage fencing. In that context, it works because stage fencing is as much a tradition in the swashbucker genre as the swashbucklers, but it’s not an example of good sword combat.

Stage combat is choreographed, it doesn’t actually involve striking at the body in a significant way. Instead, you clash the swords together because, again, it’s for effect and not intended to hurt. It’s meant to be safe. The days of overeager crowds leaping onto stage with sword in hand to defend the honor of the play’s wrongly accused or start drunken brawls are long behind us. This can lead to more lax behavior because, again, the weapon is treated as a prop (which it is) instead of a weapon. It’s “safe” in a way a real sword or a real gun isn’t. It also gives you a lot more room to screw around. There’s a punch taught in stage combat that you’ll see commonly used in movies, it’s a roundhouse punch where when done right will cause no injury if the receiver rolls their head slightly and it can be done at full speed. You’ll see it often in shows like Supernatural, for example, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Like most stage combat/stunt fighting it’s an illusion. Good enough that dogs can’t tell it’s not bacon, as it were. It’s there to convince the audience something dangerous is happening, but it rarely

What you’re dealing with, and you have my sympathies, is something every martial artist in the U.S. goes through at some point or another. They will go through it their entire lives, whether they quit or not. This is mainly because Hollywood is the only access most people have to understand the combat arts, you have first hand information and you know what’s accurate. However, there will still be those people who believe their experiences on the subject are more accurate than yours. Whether it’s through what they’ve been told or experienced second hand through media. People will argue with you passionately for what they believe in or refuse to take you at your word. Some may even judge you for it. Some may resent you for the reality ruining their fantasy.

You will be facing incredibly invasive and frustrating questions for the rest of your life. You will have these same conversations over and over and over again, and some people will get irritated with you when you get frustrated. (Even though you’re frustrated because you just had this conversation with the last three people.) All I can say is that it’s a part of life.

No answers either Starke or I can give will soothe that inevitable aspect or fix it. They won’t stop those questions from coming. What I can say is take comfort in the fact you’re not alone.

Tell the person who wants to fence you: “no”. Or, at least, no in context of “not unless you want to come down to my fencing club”. Get them a day pass, put them in proper gear, be under the supervision of others, and have at it. (But, you know, also be kind.)


arialis  asked:

Prompt: soma, prohibition era. That is all, go forth kitten! (please no angst)


This took me forever, sorry! Anyway, here is this weird little jazz club thing that probably isn’t entirely historically accurate, but hopefully pretty close. Also you didn’t ask for genderbent!Kilik BUT YOU GOT HER ANYWAY.

P.S. - This gets a *tiny bit* risque toward the end, but it’s like PG-13 risque. Read at your discretion. Also I apologize for typos and such, this is a little less edited than my usual fare.


The Green Mill spun lazily overhead, casting its harlequin light over the building and recalling the streets of Paris. It shone brighter than Maka’s eyes and she sheathed her sneer, careful to keep her face doe-sweet and smiling. Kili Rung nudged her with an elbow, cocking a brow above her black specs.

“You ready? We don’t have all day to wait. The audition’s calling.” Kili ran a hand over her close-cut braids, her dark skin shifting with every turn of the infamous windmill atop the jazz club.

Maka pulled out her pocket mirror and checked her hair and lips for the fifth time in the last hour. She had to look the part.

“Hold tight,” she said, snapping the compact shut. “We’re not really angling for the job, anyhow.”

“We still gotta sell it,” Kili said with a shake of her head. “You know who else sings here? Billie Holy Pipes Holiday, that’s who. She’s the bar we’re aiming for, and being late isn’t gonna help. Come on, slowpoke.”

Maka took a breath. “Now or never, I guess.”

Keep reading

to the visionary idiot who thinks “Red’s blood is pumping in Ressler’s veins” and it makes him the grandfather of Liz’s baby (I won’t tag bc I already blocked her and I will never ever unblock but some things still need to be said here)

1. first I need a minute to compose myself in the face of so much stupid and fail

2. Trump seems to have successfully infiltrated TBL fandom as well. Clearly nothing is sacred anymore.

3. okay

4. so

5. A blood transfusion cannot alter a person’s DNA, okay? They will carry the donor’s DNA for a limited period of time but eventually these “donor cells” die, the person begins producing their own blood cells again, and the “donor DNA” will completely disappear from their bloodstream. In other words, it’s Ressler’s blood pumping in Ressler’s veins, and he only has his DNA in his body. Red’s donation is no longer circulating in there in any shape or form.

6. Blood doesn’t determine a child’s DNA. DNA is inherited via the parents’ reproductive cells (aka sperms and eggs). Even when a pregnant mother receives blood transfusion and the donor blood ends up in the baby’s bloodstream, both the mother’s and her baby’s DNA will remain intact.

7. But if we ignore all that basic Earth biology and basic Earth logic and accept that

a) Red’s alpha male blood cells have beaten Ressler’s into permanent submission and
b) now his DNA is mixed in with Ressler’s, turning Ressler into a sort of chimera + relative (don’t ask how), and
c) Liz got pregnant from Ressler,

well, that actually makes Red the baby’s father too since his DNA was also carried by Ressler’s lucky swimmer that first slipped into Liz’s little baby oven on that fateful night which was apparently not remembered by either of them in subsequent episodes.

But wait bc this can get even better

8. Since our titular visionary is a blind slave to everything J.Boke says, it means the possibility of Red being Liz’s father is still a very real one for her. So real that she considers Lizzington incest. So… grab onto something… so Ressler carries Red’s DNA due to that magical transfusion, which means Liz could be pregnant from both her father and her brother/uncle (depending on how Ressler’s DNA was modified - did he become a simple chimera sort or Red’s son or brother or all of the above?), which means that Red is the father of Liz, Ressler, and also their double!incest!baby at the same time, but he’s also a kinda-sorta-grandfather (on both sides) to incest!baby, a father-in-law to Ressler and also to Liz (or maybe a semi-brother to Ressler - again depending on how Ressler’s DNA was modified - in which case Liz is also his sister-in-law, YAY it’s just one big, albeit v compact & tight-knit family even on a molecular level).

So are you feeling dizzy yet? Because I am. But this is not a theory at all. This is the arc, the story you could see unfolding before your very eyes if you actually LOOKED. AT. THE. FUCKING. CLUES. or clue. It’s all about the scarf, really. That’s the linchpin of the whole show. And some off-the-wall, out-of-this-world biology. This is what J.Boke told us already. I, for one, am so glad and grateful for the heads-up bc I’m def gonna need some time to prepare myself for this sublime journey into the Twilight Zone next month.