- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- Online Availability
- Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Occasionally Tuesdays.
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Female
- Futanari
- Primarily Prefer Female
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Magical Realism, adventures/action, scifi and fictional modern, Medium-high fantasy, complicated romance, Adult, Horror, Japan-friendly, fanbased, LGBT*-friendly, flexible period drama, dystopias, mythological influence, psychological drama and horror... Open to other suggestions as well.
View attachment 81635
For such a large house, the interior of the three-story was quite modest. Not in its contents, which were certainly not sparse, but rather in their nature: antiquated statuettes, books, lamps that threw gentle, yellow light, and slightly dusty bowls that were mostly empty. Yet the crowd that pumped through the house like blood was out in glitter-studded splendor, sequined dresses and shiny shoes bouncing the reserved lamplight like disco balls. They were all there to see the pride and joy of the quaint, comfortable house: the numerous paintings.
Dr. Hans Klein had been a professor of art history for the better part of thirty years, and over the course of them had collected a stunning array of paintings. Each was a jewel on the throat of the house, offset in white light and cream wallpaper.
As he did every year, Dr. Klein had invited them all there at $25 a plate to see the art, dine, and support his department's scholarship. This year only differed in a few things, as Klein was a creature of habit and preferred not to change things if he could help it. His usual front security guard had suffered a broken leg during an amateur MMA competition, but the opponent who had done it had humbly stepped up to take his place at half the usual fee. Their caterer had also insisted he offer gluten-free options this year, which he grudgingly did so despite the uptick in price, sure she was only pushing it because she had had to hire additional staff for the party.
Otherwise, things at the party were the same. For the third year in a row he'd managed to book Rhoda Roman, one of Metro City's most promising singers, and all of the seats at the table had been filled. With her came the usual patronage and discounts on liquor from the club she usually sang at, The Shooting Star. Their usual chef was there, producing the usual sumptuous meal, and Klein was quite content that things were on course.
Mostly.
Beneath the party, in the basement, lay something quite different. When Klein had purchased it, he had assumed it was merely an ancient ceremonial sort of mask or statue. However, within a short three months, he had learned otherwise. Within nine, the mob had begun to try to get it from him, first through bargaining, but more lately through threats.
View attachment 81636
So for the party he had hired Sterling Morgan to protect it, calling it only "exceptionally valuable" and conveniently forgetting the woman and strange land he'd seen in his dreams every night since acquiring the thing.
For such a large house, the interior of the three-story was quite modest. Not in its contents, which were certainly not sparse, but rather in their nature: antiquated statuettes, books, lamps that threw gentle, yellow light, and slightly dusty bowls that were mostly empty. Yet the crowd that pumped through the house like blood was out in glitter-studded splendor, sequined dresses and shiny shoes bouncing the reserved lamplight like disco balls. They were all there to see the pride and joy of the quaint, comfortable house: the numerous paintings.
Dr. Hans Klein had been a professor of art history for the better part of thirty years, and over the course of them had collected a stunning array of paintings. Each was a jewel on the throat of the house, offset in white light and cream wallpaper.
As he did every year, Dr. Klein had invited them all there at $25 a plate to see the art, dine, and support his department's scholarship. This year only differed in a few things, as Klein was a creature of habit and preferred not to change things if he could help it. His usual front security guard had suffered a broken leg during an amateur MMA competition, but the opponent who had done it had humbly stepped up to take his place at half the usual fee. Their caterer had also insisted he offer gluten-free options this year, which he grudgingly did so despite the uptick in price, sure she was only pushing it because she had had to hire additional staff for the party.
Otherwise, things at the party were the same. For the third year in a row he'd managed to book Rhoda Roman, one of Metro City's most promising singers, and all of the seats at the table had been filled. With her came the usual patronage and discounts on liquor from the club she usually sang at, The Shooting Star. Their usual chef was there, producing the usual sumptuous meal, and Klein was quite content that things were on course.
Mostly.
Beneath the party, in the basement, lay something quite different. When Klein had purchased it, he had assumed it was merely an ancient ceremonial sort of mask or statue. However, within a short three months, he had learned otherwise. Within nine, the mob had begun to try to get it from him, first through bargaining, but more lately through threats.
So for the party he had hired Sterling Morgan to protect it, calling it only "exceptionally valuable" and conveniently forgetting the woman and strange land he'd seen in his dreams every night since acquiring the thing.
For such a large house, the interior of the three-story was quite modest. Not in its contents, which were certainly not sparse, but rather in their nature: antiquated statuettes, books, lamps that threw gentle, yellow light, and slightly dusty bowls that were mostly empty. Yet the crowd that pumped through the house like blood was out in glitter-studded splendor, sequined dresses and shiny shoes bouncing the reserved lamplight like disco balls. They were all there to see the pride and joy of the quaint, comfortable house: the numerous paintings.
Dr. Hans Klein had been a professor of art history for the better part of thirty years, and over the course of them had collected a stunning array of paintings. Each was a jewel on the throat of the house, offset in white light and cream wallpaper.
As he did every year, Dr. Klein had invited them all there at $25 a plate to see the art, dine, and support his department's scholarship. This year only differed in a few things, as Klein was a creature of habit and preferred not to change things if he could help it. His usual front security guard had suffered a broken leg during an amateur MMA competition, but the opponent who had done it had humbly stepped up to take his place at half the usual fee. Their caterer had also insisted he offer gluten-free options this year, which he grudgingly did so despite the uptick in price, sure she was only pushing it because she had had to hire additional staff for the party.
Otherwise, things at the party were the same. For the third year in a row he'd managed to book Rhoda Roman, one of Metro City's most promising singers, and all of the seats at the table had been filled. With her came the usual patronage and discounts on liquor from the club she usually sang at, The Shooting Star. Their usual chef was there, producing the usual sumptuous meal, and Klein was quite content that things were on course.
Mostly.
Beneath the party, in the basement, lay something quite different. When Klein had purchased it, he had assumed it was merely an ancient ceremonial sort of mask or statue. However, within a short three months, he had learned otherwise. Within nine, the mob had begun to try to get it from him, first through bargaining, but more lately through threats.
View attachment 81636
So for the party he had hired Sterling Morgan to protect it, calling it only "exceptionally valuable" and conveniently forgetting the woman and strange land he'd seen in his dreams every night since acquiring the thing.
For such a large house, the interior of the three-story was quite modest. Not in its contents, which were certainly not sparse, but rather in their nature: antiquated statuettes, books, lamps that threw gentle, yellow light, and slightly dusty bowls that were mostly empty. Yet the crowd that pumped through the house like blood was out in glitter-studded splendor, sequined dresses and shiny shoes bouncing the reserved lamplight like disco balls. They were all there to see the pride and joy of the quaint, comfortable house: the numerous paintings.
Dr. Hans Klein had been a professor of art history for the better part of thirty years, and over the course of them had collected a stunning array of paintings. Each was a jewel on the throat of the house, offset in white light and cream wallpaper.
As he did every year, Dr. Klein had invited them all there at $25 a plate to see the art, dine, and support his department's scholarship. This year only differed in a few things, as Klein was a creature of habit and preferred not to change things if he could help it. His usual front security guard had suffered a broken leg during an amateur MMA competition, but the opponent who had done it had humbly stepped up to take his place at half the usual fee. Their caterer had also insisted he offer gluten-free options this year, which he grudgingly did so despite the uptick in price, sure she was only pushing it because she had had to hire additional staff for the party.
Otherwise, things at the party were the same. For the third year in a row he'd managed to book Rhoda Roman, one of Metro City's most promising singers, and all of the seats at the table had been filled. With her came the usual patronage and discounts on liquor from the club she usually sang at, The Shooting Star. Their usual chef was there, producing the usual sumptuous meal, and Klein was quite content that things were on course.
Mostly.
Beneath the party, in the basement, lay something quite different. When Klein had purchased it, he had assumed it was merely an ancient ceremonial sort of mask or statue. However, within a short three months, he had learned otherwise. Within nine, the mob had begun to try to get it from him, first through bargaining, but more lately through threats.
So for the party he had hired Sterling Morgan to protect it, calling it only "exceptionally valuable" and conveniently forgetting the woman and strange land he'd seen in his dreams every night since acquiring the thing.