munisthemuse:

She laughed sympathetically. “I’m the same. My mom was better at fixing things than I am. I try not to sew anything much, but most times I have no choice. Jacob’s a kid, y’know? He’s bound to tear his shirts or skin his knees playing around. And if not him, me being the clumsy idiot I am.” Another, softer laugh and she slid off the counter and onto her feet. “Forget riding horses. I’ve only been on one once before in my life and it just stood there and took a really large piss.” Recalling the memory made her shake her head quickly. 

“I’ll be right back, then.” She skittered off quickly, on her tip-toes, to her bedroom, rummaging through her back pack wedged under her bed. She found her sketchbook and returned to the kitchen flipping through it. Once finding one of her favorite drawings, she turned to show it to him.

Before Eros can comment on her self-deprecation, he can’t help but snort at her recount of her childhood experience. “Better a large piss than bucking you clear off the saddle, don’t you think?” he calls after her retreating form, washing the tomatoes and carefully peeling them one by one. In the midst of this, the girl returns, and he peers down at the sketchbook in her hands. “You’re very talented,” he comments. “I know of gods who can’t draw a straight line, let alone the shape of a woman.”

HOLY SHIT ALLIE

I JUST REALISED YOU REPLIED A MONTH AGO AND HERE I WAS MOPING THAT I HAD NO REPLIES JESUS CHRIST I’M SO GOMENAFUL

IT'S DONE

Roleplay blog for Richard B. Riddick and Captain John Hart. 

IT'S DONE

Roleplay blog for Richard B. Riddick and Captain John Hart. 

You maaaay have been wondering what’s been taking me so long to A, contact some of you and B, get that Hart/Riddick profile up.

If not, you can skip this, and a terrible morning to you all, too.

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From the Ashes

dauntlessgrace:

Having been sliding inexorably toward the shore of sleep - which in itself was of a concern for the angel, the sudden chaos that descended upon the room took him by surprise. He jerked awake, eyes snapping open as he half turned. 

_{The approach of the woman was met with a deeply furrowed brow. The severe set of her features seemed an attempt to dissuade him from interfering with whatever madness was taking place unseen. He could hear Daithi, could see the hulking shoulders of some overgrown beast.} 

_{It took him but a moment to make his decision.} 

_{He fairly flew from his bedding, feet finding the floor beneath him as he cast a wary glance at the woman seemingly tasked with his containment.} 

_{“What are you doing?” He growled. “Leave him be.”}

_{The cry of his companion struck through him, his patience ebbing as he sought to determine the nature of their intent for himself.} 

_{“Daithi!” He cried, surging forward, toward the partition.}

“Cast—ungk!” Daithi’s breath bursts out of him in a noise clearly alerting everyone in the vicinity of his discomfort. His ribs creak and his insides feel like they’re struggling to melt together. When Daithi wheezes a breath, the woman steps in front of Castiel, pupils dilating sharply as she sends a powerful psionic burst in the angel’s direction, starting at the partition and sweeping toward the bed at high speed.

Daithi, meanwhile, abruptly bursts into blue-white snakes of electricity that buzz and jump from crown to sole and up the Minotaur’s arm, but his captor merely chuckles and—with a voice like a cave deigning to speak—rumbles, “Nice try, pixie. Can’t hurt us now.” Daithi’s lightning snuffs out in his shock, jaw slack and eyes shimmering silver. The minotaur squeezes, carrying him out through the door, the Sidhe struggling to breathe and weakly trying to pry open his hand.

“Best to stay out of our way, pet,” the winged man murmurs at Castiel around a wicked smirk. “It’ll hurt a lot less.”

(Source: sweet-victory)

I’m thinking of making a side blog as Riddick, John Hart, and possibly one original character, since I have a dozen people added and I’m only playing with a couple with replies bi-weekly. Bored as tits. I’ll let you know when I’m done so you can add if you feel like it. If not, well, thanks for the replies if you send them my way and thanks for nothing if I’m a dash padder.

We lost internet for 11 days. These were dark and trying times.

BUT I’M BACK!

Stupid internet company.

So I heard it was Munday.

Oh, god.

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From the Ashes

dauntlessgrace:

He knows better than to be snapping and snarling like some wounded animal, scarred Grace or no. Common decency was not robbed of him in the ritual. He hesitates, an apology settling upon his tongue as Daithi turns away from him. But he does not speak it. 

It is too soon. The anger and grief still too near for him. He will make amends when he feels able. For now, his limbs ache and his throat is raw; his Grace throbs with its violation and he feels ill. 

He settles upon the mattress, exhaling steadily. Unseen wings trail from the edge of the bedding, stretching out in their discomfort. He does not notice that they brush against the partitions, the thin divider lurching beneath the press of feathered appendages. 

He is too glad for the moment in which he might rest.

Unfortunately for the angel, it’s only a moment.

Daithi startles as the main door hisses open, freezing in the act of pulling the covers back on his bed. In stride three beings clad in white: a lithe woman with dark blonde hair twisted into a bun, a tall man whose leathery wings whisper along the floor, and an impossibly large, hairy beast—a minotaur, by the looks of him—whom has to bend nearly at the waist to fit through the portal.

Immediately, all three sets of eyes fall on Daithi, and he blanches, pressing his back up against the wall. The woman makes her way toward Castiel’s side of the room and stands between the angel and the end of the partition, while the man and the minotaur approach Daithi’s side. There’s a brief struggle as Daithi attempts to use his magic against them, but it dies before it can touch them, shriveling his blade-like vines and swallowing his fire. In the end—though he knows it’s fruitless—he resorts to physical struggle, grunting and writhing in the iron-hard grip of the minotaur as his large, meaty hand closes around Daithi’s waist.

The Sidhe chokes on the air he tries to pull in as he’s lifted like a rag doll, a hoarse shout of distress escaping his lips as the minotaur manhandles him toward the door.

(Source: sweet-victory)