#God I just hate 1920s clothing so much

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, I)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrds winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, child left to travel solo, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

A/N: Your bird just got diagnosed with a life changing chronic condition (in addition to being put back on depression meds). We'll see how this post does. Have four chapters planned. The last scene is based on personal experiences with heat exhaustion/borderline heat stroke.

Dream’s tools brought many things to Fawney Rig. Wealth and prestige. Admiration, gifts, and influence. Nearly everything the magus wanted and only a fraction of what he thought he deserved. Roderick’s dreams of power and riches drew another tool to his hand, or perhaps Destiny drew the magus to her. The girl who saw strange things in the dark and found answers to strange riddles in her cards. But her wyrd would always draw her to old house and its shrouded dungeon, in any world or time. All because of what the Burgesses kept there.

In the eight years since the fateful evening he summoned and caught one of the Endless, Roderick had become a man much desired. He found himself with an invitation to Lord and Lady Werthrope’s party, a guest of honor at a soiree at their country estate. They promised a night of occult mysteries and foreign prizes. Bits of people and places from across the empire and beyond. Mummies from Egypt and fragments of Greek antiquities to gasp and shriek over with glasses of champagne and brandy.

Roderick carried himself as Lord Werthrope’s equal, and at least for that night, surrounded by ancient mysteries of all kinds, he was seen as such. He was an expert, a guide, someone to hold in reverence rather than an oddity to gawk over. He told them with his bearing, his dignity, and the ruby he wore on a golden chain around his neck. His wishes became dreams and so became real. He stood like a stronger god beside the broken figure of Apollo and scoffed at the mistranslations of texts he’d only ever read secondhand.

Beside the wonders kept under guard at home, what were these paltry things? He could have any of them he desired, and he’d already claimed better.

His sense of superiority carried him through the party’s early hours, moving from acrobats in elaborate costumes, to fire eaters, to ghost stories and flights of fancy spun by swindlers far below his consideration. He had an answer or alternative for everything. And then he met the girl.

She sat at a bare table with no long cloth to hide rolling ankles, clever fishing lines, or knocking accomplices. Only a candle and a deck of cards separated her from the guests, and she’d drawn quite a queue. Her feet didn’t even reach the floor, swinging idly between the legs of the chair as she read the cards of a distraught-looking dandy.

Taking his arm, Lady Werthrope said, “This one you really must see, Magus. She’s made quite the splash in New York and London.”

The Magus offered a tolerant smile. “And what is the trick? Does she blow out the candle? Bend spoons?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The lady practically vibrated, eager to impress as she led them to the table, scattering the line. “She sees things, and she reads fortunes like no one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had more than a few pet psychics in my time. This one’s a bit of a sad story.”

The magus clenched his jaw until the muscle in his cheek twitched. He could make whatever sob story the girl shilled much worse. Of all the frauds and liars who feigned knowledge of the occult, Roderick Burgess hated mediums and ghost whisperers the most. The tantalizing promise of connection with Randal – always waved in his face, always ultimately denied – it clawed open the rotting wound in his heart, and he let the poison drip back on any fools who tried his patience.

Let this one try to pull the wool over his eyes, and he’d unmask her in front of this glittering audience. She’d be a penniless sad story when he was through.

“Those people,” the lady said, nodding to a couple flanking the child, “are just the adoptive parents. Saw her family murdered, poor thing. They say that’s what cracked her open to the other world.”

“Do they indeed.” He kept his smile, showing his teeth as his grip flexed over the cane in his free hand. “Then I look forward to her performance.”

The Magus and the lady sat across from the faux family, and the girl looked at them. The people who weren’t her parents did not manage her well, Burgess couldn’t help noting. They’d painted her up with rogue and kohl that made her look even more like a child playing grownup games, and the feather in her headband hung limp and lifeless. She barely managed to grimace through a smile, and she spoke with all the enthusiasm of a student reporting on Ovid to the class.

“What are you asking?” A child’s voice really shouldn’t be so dull. Now that he was nearer, the Magus couldn’t help wondering if she was even younger than he’d first assumed. Not even ten, he thought, and already so exhausted.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He kept his guard, but curiosity stirred beneath. She was no great performer.

Lady Werthrope leaned forward, eager to take the first reading as the girl shuffled her cards. They were nearly too big for her to manage, but in this at least she clearly had much practice. Her handling of the tarot was the most natural element of her demeanor he’d yet to see.

The lady talked about her dog Moxy, a cocker spaniel much loved and terribly spoiled. It was getting on in years, and, well, ought she prepare for anything dreadful? Only, her friend had just lost her terrier, and she couldn’t chase it from her thoughts…

The cards appeared on the table. One by one. The Six of Cups. The Two of Swords. And, lastly, the Nine of Swords reversed.

“Moxy is well-loved.” The child pointed to the first card. “That’s the foundation. But she’s getting older, and she may go blind eventually. She’s accepted it, though, and you will, too.” She smiled a little, hesitantly, like a pet used to getting kicked when she barked at company. The Magus noted how her gaze flicked to her pseudo-father.

Lady Werthrope clucked and reached over to squeeze the child’s hand. “You’re very honest. And very sweet. Now, won’t you show the Magus what you can do?”

Obediently, she gathered the cards and folded the deck, shuffling them with the fresh energy of her next customer. “What do you want to know?”

Roderick considered. It was a little below him to ask anything specific of a child spiritualist, and he still meant to test her. Hate stirred the old thorn in his heart, and although she didn’t speak with ghosts to earn her bread, he didn’t need to justify himself.

“I’ll leave the question to you.” He squinted in a way that may seem affectionate, but it was only sharp, a predator focusing on little fawn to see how quickly it might run. “What do you see?”

She flinched, lifting her eyes from the cards to meet his in a fleeting, startled glance. Like he’d come near to guessing something she didn’t say out loud. But then she bent over the deck, back to her work as the woman behind her set a hand on her shoulder.

“Be good, Aisling,” the adoptive mother said. “Show the Magus your skills. Don’t embarrass us.”

The child rolled her lip between her teeth, sorting the task quickly. One card. Two cards. Three cards. Tap, tap, tap on the bare table. The Magician’s face glowed in the candle light, and Roderick blinked. A good tarot reader must have good luck in order to draw the appropriate cards – or a marked deck. But he’d watched those little hands like a hawk, and he’d seen nothing. It wasn’t definitive proof by any means, but Roderick Burgess knew himself to be cleverer than a child.

Pointing to the first card, the Magician, the girl said, “You’re the Magus. The Magician is your creation of yourself.” The second card was the Nine of Cups. “Your cups all overflow, and you enjoy the plenty you already have.” And then there was the Ace of Pentacles. Roderick wondered for a moment if she’d laid the cards out of the intended order, but she simply said, “There is new wealth coming. You’ve just found something that will bring you more good fortune. The benefits will grow in the months and years to come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” He looked for cracks, and there were many. Fatigue clouded her eyes and weighted the end of every sentence. Not a sign of a lie, though. She couldn’t even pretend to be happy for the audience.

He turned the interaction over in his mind through the rest of the night, wearing away the questions and presumptions like the rough edges of a stone, and by the later hours, he thought he might hold a jewel.

The adoptive parents made themselves easy to find. They hadn’t left the table. Neither had the girl. The lord and lady hired them to entertain, and they stayed at their posts. They’d gathered refreshments, but no cup or plate sat on the table, and he wondered if they had any idea children needed things like water after a long night of speaking with strangers.

Really. The scheme was too transparent. The only lies hid in any manner of affection the parents pretended for the child they claimed.

The Magus marched up to the table, rapping the top with his cane to seize the drowsy girl’s attention. She blinked, started licking her dry lips, caught herself, and pinched her mouth closed with her teeth.

“Aisling, wasn’t it?” He nodded to her, encouraging her to echo the motion. “I would like a word with you. No cards. No reading. Just a conversation. Alone.”

The father stepped forward, ready to defend his meal ticket. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t just –”

“The girl and I will sit here, at this table,” he tapped it again to make his point, “and you will both stand over there.” The cane swung to point towards the bar, which was well within sight but well out of earshot.

When the man moved to protest again, Roderick pulled out his wallet, and the father’s mouth snapped shut. A few pounds bought the adults’ willing compliance, and they went off in search of drinks with barely a backwards glance. Roderick settled into the seat he claimed earlier, watching the girl squirm. Her hands fluttered restlessly between her lap and the table, clearly used to the cards, uneasy without the form and ritual of a reading to guide the conversation.

That was well enough. Roderick had his own plans.

He signaled one of the roving staff, and as the waiter approached, he ordered, “A lemonade for the young lady.”

With a bow, the server hurried off, and the Magus smiled, lips closed, tilting his head as his legs crossed under the table. He was not a client. He was an adult who noticed, who might be moved to care, and in the few hours of their acquaintance, he was already offering more than anyone else.

“So, you see things?”

Her eyes snapped from him to the people who managed her. Then back again, and down to her lap.

“I’m not supposed to upset people.” She picked at the fringe on the garish frock she wore – entirely unsuited to her age and clearly uncomfortable. “It upsets Mr. and Mrs. Foster when I see things. Or when I talk about them.”

The Magus nodded, unsurprised. He wondered if the people who adopted her even realized her talents were genuine when they snatched her up. They had too many connections and too much showmanship to be anything other than experienced con artists. This little Aisling must be very sensitive, and the truly sensitive didn’t see strictly good, kind, or encouraging things. How she must terrify the fools.

The server returned with a cut crystal glass rattling with ice. The girl thanked the server, then thanked her benefactor, and wrapped her hands around the condensation-slicked sides. She sipped carefully, and Roderick could see the tension ease from her posture as she drank. Desperate as she was, she didn’t gulp, and with clear regret, she set the drink on the table still two-thirds full. But she kept her hands on the glass, lest some waiter assume she was finished and spirit it away.

“I won’t be upset, and I’d like to believe you.” Angling his head down to peer at her meaningfully, employing a look he’d once used when his son misbehaved, he asked, “What have you seen tonight that would upset people?”

The girl looked around, shifting so her chair creaked. This time, it wasn’t her adoptive parents she feared. Any ears may be a threat. When she leaned in, the Magus copied her, silently assuring her the secret would be safe with him.

“There’s a guest who’s not a guest, and he isn’t a man, either.”

The Magus hummed. “Say I believe you. Could you prove it?”

Seduced into the invitation of an adult confidant, and revived by the lemonade, she rushed to answer. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be believed and heard. The Magus was listening, and he was beginning to believe as well.

“The man paid the footman with holly leaves,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “The footman folded them like bank notes, and the spines stabbed his palms, but he didn’t notice. Look for the one with blood on his gloves.”

“And the man who isn’t a man?”

Shrinking back, the girl shook her head until the headband went crooked. Her hand pressed over her heart, rubbing hard circles as her face creased.

“He’d know I saw him,” she said. “I don’t let them know I see them anymore.”

Now there was a tale and no mistake. A child with enough power to annoy things beyond the veil – one that survived an encounter – was rare indeed.

“What happened?” He lent his tone a shade of concern. Facts, he found, traveled swiftest to a sympathetic ear, and he needed to know everything. Curiosity was growing into practical fervor as the first dreams of a plan grew into place. “Are you ill?”

She crumbled just a little bit more, folding into herself to protect the place she rubbed from some invisible threat. “Sometimes I see things that don’t want to be seen. One of them – hurt me. There’s no scar, but it hurt me, and now it aches.”

The Magus donned a solemn expression, though he felt a thrill at the prospect sitting before him. The little girl had unusual skills, and though she wasn’t handled well by the adults governing her, they must still turn a pretty penny showing her in salons and private homes. He’d confirm what she’d said, of course, validate her little proof, but she was either a better liar than he’d ever met or she was childishly honest. He knew where he’d put his money.

Where he might very well invest it, actually.

He didn’t say goodbye, only nodding as he rose and went in search of the servant with bloody gloves.

Of course, he found him. When he demanded to see what the footman had in his pockets, the boy paled, stammering excuses, only to pull out a handful of forest detritus. As the young man fell into a whirl of confusion and disappointment, the Magus truly smiled. The first real smile since Lady Werthrope brought him to the child’s table.

He must have a proper conversation with the girl’s current guardians.

Aisling clung to her bag, drowning in the heat as the train pulled away from the Wych Cross platform. Men and women fanned themselves with hats and newspapers, desperate for a breeze in the dead summer stillness. Ladies shed their gloves. Men loosened their ties. Propriety mattered less when the air was trying to suffocate them, a crushing, inescapable oven scalding the usually damp countryside.

A miserable day to travel.

Sweat dripped down her back, soaking the neck of her dress, gluing her hair to her skin. But she didn’t have a free hand to stir a breeze. Her bag was too heavy, full of everything she would need in her new home, or at least everything the Fosters thought they couldn’t sell for a profit. Mrs. Foster took her to the train station and dropped her at the door.

“Here’s your ticket. You’re heading to Wych Cross, and then to Fawney Rig. Don’t forget, and don’t miss your train,” she’d said. Then she climbed back into the cab beside Mr. Foster and disappeared into the flow of London traffic.

They’d sold her on to someone else, and now they were free of her.

She peered around the station, but it was really just a platform. In London, there were helpful adults in uniforms and suits who pointed out the right train and the right stairs to reach it. Nothing here told her how to find Fawney Rig, though, and the only adult in a uniform seemed to be the man in the ticket booth.

She’d find her way. She wasn’t a baby after all. She was eight. And she could read very well, and no one was coming to help her, so she better figure it out.

She stood in line for the ticket man’s attention. Surely, he could give her directions. The Magus was rich, and a little famous, she thought, so his neighbors must know where he lived. If the man in the booth didn’t know, she’d keep asking until she found someone who did. While she waited her turn, she set down her suitcase and sat on it, taking deep breaths that tasted like salt. It could be worse. What if it rained instead? Well. Actually. Rain sounded very nice.

Soon enough, she took her place in front of the booth, and the man frowned under his mustache like she’d arrived with a bill or a letter from someone nasty. She smiled prettily, the way the Fosters told her to, and tried to make herself look like less of a problem as she clutched her case again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you know the way to Fawney Rig?”

He physically recoiled, and his frown hooked deeper with glowering doubt as he scanned her. “Fawney Rig? That devil worshiper’s house? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been sent to live there, sir. I’m expected, but I don’t think they’ve sent anyone for me.” Manners made things easier with adults. Good manners and clear words – the fewer the better.

But the man wasn’t swayed. He looked thunderous. Like she’d broken something valuable and ought to pay for it with a lashing.

“Do you have money for a cab?”

The Fosters didn’t own her anymore, and they’d given her nothing but cards, and costumes, and a hairbrush. All the cash stayed warm and safe in their pockets.

“No, sir.”

“Then walk down the main road. Go east from the village, and keep going until there are no more houses you can see from the street. There’ll be a path on the left with a big iron gate. Follow that and you’ll find your devil worshipers.” He waved her off like he’d slap her if not for the glass. “Next!”

Manners got her what she needed, at least. “Thank you.”

The other adults all moved aside as she trundled through with her case. It made it easier to avoid clipping ankles and shins with her luggage, but she wondered if they hated her the way the ticket man hated her – because of Fawney Rig – or if she simply smelled after the long, stuffy ride in third class. Not that adults needed an excuse to dislike her. The nice ones called her uncanny and gifted. The mean ones called her a witch, and a bastard devil-spawn, and other names a mother should wash out of their mouths with soap.

She wasn’t sure which ones were telling the truth.

She knew the way forward, though. To Fawney Rig. That was good, even if the other adults didn’t think so. The Magus may not be a nice person, she hadn’t known him long enough for the usual adult lies to wear thin enough to see through, but he was smarter than the Fosters, and he’d given her a lemonade, so maybe she wouldn’t be as hungry or thirsty under his guardianship. She’d still have to work. Adults only wanted her if they thought she could give them something. But everything was more bearable with a good dinner and cold drinks.

She hoped he’d give her another cold drink, even water with some ice, when she reached his home. The train ride left her terribly thirsty.

Leaving the shaded platform, she bowed away from the sun’s violent touch and started on her journey. The village only kept a cobbled road in the center of town. It led up to the train station, linking it to a clutch of shops and offices. A parish church sat a little way back from the road, separated from the secular world by a field of tidy tombstones in heat-bleached grass. People noticed her. They looked. They whispered to each other. But no one waved or offered a hand. Gossip didn’t move fast enough to beat her here from the train, and she wondered how people could tell she was odd. Society had so many rules beyond manners, but no one would tell her what they were, and she never guessed right.

By the time the cobblestones ended, she was struggling to hold onto her suitcase. The handle kept trying to slip from her fingers, even when she held it with both hands, and she had to work harder and harder to keep it out of the dirt. If she knew anything about the world, it was that good children didn’t drag their luggage, and bad things happened to those that did. She’d travelled enough to learn, and she wanted to make a good impression on her new keeper and his household.

The road outside of town went a very, very long way. The ticket seller’s instructions made each step sound the same length: go through town, pass the houses, go down the long drive past the gates. Her imagination had lied to her, though. Every time she thought she’d passed the last house, there came another. Each handed her down the chain of cottage gardens and small homes full of families who pretended not to see. They all knew she’d done something, like she had a brand on her forehead, and she wasn’t allowed to stop. She didn’t try to.

Everything looked sickly yellow in the midday glare. Dust hung in the air, stirred by passing cars, lingering without a breath of wind to dispel the choking clouds. Everything looked flat and dead, so much so she almost missed the gate. Another leg of her trek done. Still too far to go, and the private road leading to the Magus’ home was longer than it had any right to be.

She didn’t feel well. The trees gave her a little protection, but her stomach and lungs felt hard, strained, the way her arms ached with carrying her suitcase. Only they were parts that shouldn’t feel that way, and she thought maybe she should sit down.

But she was almost there.

Even if she walked slowly, and her feet didn’t land quite where she told them to.

She just wouldn’t think about those things. Complaining was just making excuses, and she was expected.

The house appeared out of nowhere, or she was too dizzy to see it through the leaves before the last turn in the drive. It loomed, a very final-looking destination, and her suitcase escaped her grasp. The case was slippery, and her fingers didn’t curl the way they should. She bent to pick it up, and when she straightened, the whole world spun.

She stood very still until it stopped, and she found herself shivering as she approached the front door. Very strange. Was she afraid? No. That didn’t sound right. She felt terrible, too terrible to worry, and none of it made sense.

But she’d nearly made it. She had made it. Almost.

Knocking summoned a young man, and the door creaked open as he glanced down with a quizzical expression. “Hello? Can I help you?”

She tried holding her suitcase with just one hand, but it slipped away again, barely missing her foot. Maybe a handshake was a bad idea. The stranger hadn’t held his hand out for a shake, after all. She was just confused. He might not want to touch her. And she must look a picture after her walk.

She should’ve done something differently. If she were smarter, or taller, or…

“I’m Aisling Hunt, sir. The Magus sent for me.”

“Oh.” The young man’s eyes popped wider, and she wondered if he was younger than she thought at first. Stepping back, he pulled open the door to usher her inside. “I’m sorry. I’d heard someone was coming, but I’d thought you’d be… well, older. And I’m just Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Aisling.”

He nodded and plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “Yes. You said. Are you feeling alright?”

She didn’t know. And grownups didn’t really like it when she was unwell anyway. Before she could come up with a suitable lie that would get her what she needed without stepping on any toes, a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.

“Ah! You made it.” Out of formal dress, the Magus still brimmed with authority. Aisling had met many adults who wore costumes and pretended to be something they weren’t, but the Magus seemed like he’d somehow stitched his chosen persona into his skin. “Welcome to Fawney Rig.”

She wobbled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Magus,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Magus, sir.”

At last, what he was seeing overshadowed his enthusiasm, and the old man frowned. “Did you walk here? From the station?”

“Yes, Magus.”

“The Fosters didn’t even give you money for a fucking cab?”

“Just the train ticket, sir. Magus.”

She blinked, and the whole room turned blue, like peering at the world through stained glass. It looked so pretty she didn’t realize the Magus was asking her another question until his hand settled on her shoulder.

His voice came from far away. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, Magus, I walked, and I found Fawney Rig all on my own, and I’m not useless, please don’t throw me away yet.

But everything looked cool, and blue, and lovely. She was floating in it. Floating and so awfully heavy at the same time. The color slipped in with her breath, eroding her control until it slipped from her grasp like the suitcase had.

The world went dark, and she didn’t see, hear, or say anything more.

And deep below, in the belly of the house, Dream of the Endless waited in his cage, as senseless to the world above as she.

[fueledpurelybyspite]

Ops, wrong painting

summary

'And so help me god, Thorpe, if something like this happens again-'

'It won't' He and his father answer at the same time.

The ancient vampire fixes both of them with a long stare. Shaking his head, he quietly adds one last jab

'And let's hope the poor girl never finds out about this'

At last, something all three of them can agree with.

Or, Xavier Thorpe is asked to do a recreation of a famous painting with a personal twist for his art class, but the canvases get mixed up.

*

Xavier Thorpe is a dead man.

Done, finished, utterly fucked would also be appropriate terms to use in this scenario. But yes, dead sums it up pretty well too.

He sits in the principal's office, left leg bouncing restlessly on the immaculate hardwood floor and eyes darting around uncomfortably.

His father is here, for god's sake. Sitting by his side with a burning glare pointed at his profile. He's just come back from a tour, the famous Illusionist Vincent Thorpe. This was supposed to be one of the rare weeks off he dares to take, which are usually spent in their house in New York, in the charming company of whatever emerging starlet he has managed to promise fame and short-lived luxury to.

Xavier can actually feel the sweat beading on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He keeps his flushed face downturned, his head hung low in his palm. blond hair is pulled tight between his fingers as his elbow lays against the armrest.

He knows he fucked up, big time. This is the first time in his school career he has reason to fear he might actually get expelled.

The new principal, a strict and burly vampire who looks like he's just emerged from 1920' London's downtown scene, was very much not impressed when his father offered to pay the school a check without even letting him finish explaining what his son had done to land him in so much trouble.

He now sits behind the imposing hardwood desk, directing an impressively hash glare on them for someone who's wearing such dark sunglasses.

'Mr. Thorpe' His rich, rough voice fills the room as he scrutinizes his father, and Xavier feels like everything is just too much. He can't stand being the center of attention and he's suddenly hyperaware of the way his clothes rest on his skin, fabric rustling and shifting and making him go insane. He's hot and cold all over, he hadn't felt this scared and embarrassed since he was scolded as a child for finding the gardener's collection of playboys.

'What your son here has committed is an extremely serious infraction. If his record so far wasn't as clean as it is, it would have warranted an immediate expulsion.'

Xavier feels like he should at least try to explain himself, but he knows he sounds exasperated. 'It was an accident'

'An accident?'

The headmaster's voice is booming and sharp-edged. The birds in the cages hanging from the windows flap their wings around restlessly. Xavier feels restless, too.

'One of my colleagues, Mr. Crellin, your art teacher, has come to me yesterday morning to tell me you have made a portrait of one of your classmates, an underaged girl, against her consent or knowledge, depicting her in a state of undress with a disturbing amount of details'

Xavier actually wants to die. Take a shovel, dig a hole, crawl in it, and just die.

His father is absolutely seething. He guesses this would be pretty bad press if the news were leaked.

He can already see the headline 'Famous illusionist's deranged son gets expelled from prestigious academy for depravity'

God, he hates to think about the huge check his art teacher has surely already taken to keep this all quiet.

He's able to find his voice, eventually, but he hates how low and wavering it sounds. 'That was not the painting I intended to hand in for the project'

If looks could kill, Xavier would already be laying in the aforementioned hole. Unfortunately, the headmaster's glare only manages to make him want to puke on his shoes. Which is still fairly impressive, he supposes.

'The point is that you have completely disregarded another student's privacy and integrity in favor of your own…enjoyment' His words are disgusted and enraged and Xavier hates every second of it because it's not like that at all.

Well, maybe a little, but still.

'And don't think I don't know what you can do with your powers, boy, if I come to know you're using your gifts to create some kind of..of amateur pornography-'

'Jesus fucking Christ'

He's never agreed with his father more.

'Look' He feels obliged to speak before the situation gets even, somehow, worse. 'I know I screwed up. Bad. But I swear I hadn't meant for anyone to see it, and I didn't do anything with it. The canvases got mixed up and I made a mess. Please, I know this looks awful, but I swear I'm not dangerous or scheming or anything. I'm just…I'm just-'

A fucking moron with a crush

He sighs, defeated.

The gods take pity on him, and so must do his principal who decides, for some unfathomable reason, to believe him. 'All of your privileges will be revoked until further notice, no more passes into town on the weekends and you will not be going to the carnival during the Harvest festival.' a deep breath, then ' You're going to help the janitors to restock the art supplies every week for the following five weeks. You'll be allowed to keep that shed you use in the woods, but a staff member will come unannounced once a month to keep an eye on what you have in there'

Ouch. It could have been a lot worse, sure, but still harsh.

'And so help me God, Thorpe, if something like this happens again-'

'It won't' He and his father answered at the same time.

The ancient vampire fixes both of them with a long stare. Shaking his head, he quietly adds one last jab.

'And let's hope the poor girl never finds out about this'

At last, something all three of them can agree with.

*

It all started on a shitty Monday morning, as most shitty things do.

Xavier lay half-splayed out in his seat, stretching in the sunlight filtering through the classroom's window like a stray cat, sleepy and dissatisfied in the pale morning light.

The lessons he had scheduled on the first day of the week were always awfully boring, but he didn't mind. In fact, he endured them with heroic courage, for no other reason than that the last one of them was art class with Mr. Crellin.

The man was a genius when it came to his craft. Even though he didn't dabble in the practical aspect of the arts, he collected rare renditions of barely known artists from all across the world and he knew every single thing about them.

His ability to analyze the most mundane detail in a painting and tell the whole history behind it, to take apart and examine the structure of the picture without depriving it of its poetry had been what had motivated Xavier to actually start studying art instead of just making it.

Drawing and painting had always been his coping mechanisms, a creative outlet to keep him from going mad. Madder, that is.

But he'd never been particularly proud of it or thought it very useful.

Mr. Crellin had changed that.

So imagine his enthusiasm when, a few minutes before dismissing class, the teacher made the announcement.

'Very well, guys. For your next assignment, I'd like each of you to find a famous painting of your choosing and try to re-draw it in your own personal perspective. Doesn't matter if you take a detail of it and transfer it in a different context or if you decide to redo the whole thing. As long as it tells me something about you'

While his classmates huffed and groaned, Xavier tried to keep his smile subtle, the gears in his head already moving.

'And remember ladies and gentlemen, it must be done by this weekend'

*

'Didn't think the day would come where I'd see you read a book without pictures'

Wednesday's words came so close to his ears that he actively had to suppress a shiver 'Oh, wait. There are pictures'

He glared at her where she stood, peeking behind his shoulder.

'This is an art history book, Addams. And they're not pictures, they're illustrations'

They were the only ones at their usual table in the quad during lunch break. The sirens had to move up choir rehearsal and Enid and Ajax were probably busy sucking face somewhere.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night' She eyed curiously his eyebags as she sat in front of him, a hint of a smile in the corners of her berry-stained lips. 'Although it's clearly not helping much.'

'Very funny' he shot back at her. He tried focusing back on his textbook, but his gaze shot up again when he noticed the odd way she had styled her custom uniform that day.

Her tie was missing entirely and the first two buttons of her shirt were undone. It wasn't promiscuous, per se, but it was still a noticeable difference from her usually pristine appearance. A pale collarbone peeked through the unfastened hem, looking as dainty and as fragile as a bird's. There, barely visible, bloomed an angry pink rash, three darker streaks in the middle as if she'd just been scratching at it.

When he realized he hadn't looked at her face for far more time than was polite, which is any amount of time, he dared to lift his gaze only to find her staring right back at him, one eyebrow raised impossibly high.

Xavier cleared his throat, fairly surprised but somehow alarmed by the lack of threats and knives. 'What happened there?' He asked, vaguely pointing at her cleavage.

Wednesday sighed in a rare display of emotion, letting her annoyance show through. 'Enid accidentally sprayed some of her nasty cheap perfume over me. Contact with clothes was only irritating it more and right now I can't afford to steal any more bandages from the infirmary without raising suspitions'

He snorted, shaking his head with an amused grin.

'Who's the elitist snob now?'

'Do shut up, Thorpe'

'As you wish, of course'

Putting her elbows on the table, Wednesday leaned in towards him to take a better look at the page he'd been studying before her arrival.

'What are you working on, anyway, so absorbed in your book with pictures'

'Illustrations'

'Whatever'

He sighed, secretly enjoying their banter. He had a feeling Wednesday did too.

'I have to work on this project for Mr.Crellin. So I'm just trying to find a painting that, you know' he trailed off, feeling clumsy in his own choice of words 'speaks to me'

Wednesday just looked back at him, seeming as unimpressed as she usually did. Then, as swiftly as she had arrived, she gathered her things to leave.

'Best of luck on your research, then'

*

A heavy sigh left his body as he stepped away from the canvas, cleaning his hands on his stained hoodie before rubbing them on his eyes, tired and heavy with sleep.

He dared to glance at what he'd been working on for the past four hours. The picture he'd managed to bring together was a rendition of The Starry Night, but instead of a peaceful city in the south of France, he'd painted the iconic sky on top of the streets of New York.

He imagined it wasn't fair to compare his father's penthouse to the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum, but whatever. He supposed Van Gogh wouldn't have been too offended, fellow tortured artist and all. Besides, Xavier felt like he'd gone just as mad, left alone in that big space year after year.

The proportions were perfect, the moonlight on the skyscrapers was flawless, and he'd recreated the masterpiece's original sky in excruciating detail. It was original and yet respectful, it was objectively beautiful.

It was soulless.

Xavier banged his head hard on his worktable. Everything about his picture felt so…impersonal. He'd been so excited for this project, it was a chance to really show what he felt, to create something meaningful and personal and heartwrenching.

something that was real.

Everything had been a mess since the Hyde. Xavier felt as if he'd lost all passion for drawing. He still loved it, of course, and still needed it, but he couldn't go back to the easy way it was before. He didn't need to plan his paintings before, he used to put the pencil on paper without knowing what would come out of it. It'd been second nature, like he'd been born with a pencil in his right hand. But then the whole shitshow that was the previous semester happened and all he could manage to draw was the Hyde. And now he had to plan things out, as if he'd completely lost his instinct.

All he drew when he really let his mind wander was Wednesday.

He knew it was creepy. And unhealthy. He shouldn't just replace one obsession with another. but he just couldn't stop. during the past few months, he'd collected an alarmingly big collection of studies of her, his two most recent sketchbooks were filled exclusively with it. Just pages and pages of the curve of her hands, the bend of her fingers against the bow of her cello, the arch of her neck, the twist and knots in her spine, the bruises on her knees, the pout on her lips, her fathomless eyes.

His hands itched as his mind brought forth the image of her exposed throat from earlier that day, the pale flash stretched over her sharp collarbones, the angry rash barely visible under the open collar of her shirt.

He wasn't sure what he'd wanted more, to touch it or to draw it.

Fuck it.

In a move filled with frustration and confusion, Xavier put his New York starry night on the ground next to the door and took out a fresh canvas.

He looked at the cheap watch on his wrist that he wore specifically while painting, a bright green 1 a.m. glared back at him.

He put the blank canvas on the easel, dipped his brush in the deepest black he had, and just let his mind wander free.

*

Obviously he'd fallen asleep barely an hour before the start of classes, obviously he'd rushed and barely made it in time for Mr. Crellin's lesson, and obviously he'd taken the wrong canvas.

Good God, what a mess.

Xavier's currently contemplating what excuse he can pull out of his ass to explain to Ajax and their friends why he can no longer go with them to try the new sushi restaurant this weekend, or any other weekend, or any other day in the foreseeable future.

He shakes his head with a humorless laugh. Hell, at least his father showed up.

He's at least got a chance to a fair grade. He makes his way to his shed to retrieve the painting he had actually intended to bring to class, the one with the starry night overlooking New York City.

Mr.Crellin has graciously agreed to leave this whole thing behind them and take a look at his real project. He supposes he should be grateful.

He isn't. Mr. Crellin is a fucking snitch.

Xavier moves on autopilot through woods he knows like the back of his hand. He steps into the clearing, takes the key to the shed out of his pocket, and swings the door open all while completely lost in thought.

'I guessed you were bound to come by, sooner or later'

He comes back to reality abruptly.

His eyes go round and impossibly big as he takes in the image of Wednesday, her back to the door and voice light and distracted as she studies intently the portrait in front of her.

The portrait of her.

Xavier can feel the sweat turn ice cold on his body, the hair raising on the back of his neck as his heart starts beating so fast it feels as if it wants to crawl out of his chest, break the bones, cut through his ribcage, destroy itself and him with it.

He'd been drunk off of frustration and lust, the night he'd painted her. There wasn't space for poetry and poise, and it shows. He can only look on horrified as the real Wednesday Addams stares at the Wednesday Addams he made, eyes half close and lids heavy with promise, the sharp bones in her face, cheeks sunken in and tiny chin jutted out towards the sky, her hair unbound behind dainty shoulders, her delicate bare breasts, the deep arch in her spine as she poses as Munch's Madonna.

He wanders, wildly, how she came to find this out. If she had a vision or heard someone in the staff talk. He wonders how she managed to steal it from the headmaster's office and bring it here, if she's more offended by the nudity or the utter surrender in the stance he dared to imagine her in.

Most of all, he wonders what kind of painful, horrifying death she's planning to inflict on him.

But his nightmarish girl manages to surprise him once again.

With a chilling calm in her voice, she lifts a single graceful finger towards the canvas to point at the space right next to a small, pink nipple.

'I have a freckle right here, actually'.

[argentumcor]

There was strand within fashion in the 1920s that drew on ancient Rome and Babylon and that 1000% should have been the aesthetic for Numenor in visual media. Not quite elven art noveau, with a lot of visual weight to it even when designed to be physically lightweight.

Show Numenor having this tie to the elves while getting pulled down by their fear of death in their costume design. I really hate all the costume design of Rings of Power, especially when you look at the amazing costume design of the Lord of the Rings films. It feels half-thought out, with all the explanations as backfill, and has this problem that you see in so much modern fantasy where somehow the clothes don't look like real clothes people would wear while living life- which is one of the things that makes the LOTR films feel like they're real.

Everything about ROP Numenor bothers me. It's such a tragic story, the highest height Men can ever reach, devout, artful, wise, crumbling under fear and pride into a filth so terrible God Himself has to wipe it from the earth. The Akallabeth is an apocalyptic event that civilization simply cannot recover from. ROP is like 'we want the Game of Thrones cash, let's do that' and just has Numenorians being petty and dumb caricatures top to bottom from the start. It all feels so cheap, even visually, but I know it wasn't!

[plague-of-insomnia]

1920s Sebastian

Piece I commissioned of Sebastian in drag by @/zombiemouth from my 1920s Sebardagni AU.

Tagging @kuro-morale-events for 1920s AU day

In this AU, Sebastian is essentially NB/gender fluid. He enjoys wearing woman’s clothes, bc he likes the way they look and feel, and he loves the effect it has on men. He wears his hair long despite the fashion, and often can pass as a fairly tall woman. It’s a risk (illegal) to crossdress in this time, and a risk (illegal) to live with two other men (Bard and Agni) who aren’t merely “roommates.” It’s a risk (illegal) to be in a relationship with a “black” man (Agni). But Sebastian decided when he left home he wouldn’t be scared to be who he is anymore.

He’s a pianist and teaches music lessons part time, and plays in a jazz band in a speakeasy run by Undertaker some nights. That’s where he met Bard, who works as a bouncer and muscle for UT.

Sebastian caught polio when he was a very young child, and now has partial paralysis in his legs (one affected more than the other), so he wears orthotics (braces) and used crutches to get around, and met Agni when he stopped by his clinic one day. (Agni is a physician.)

Sebastian is the glue the holds their polycule together, but he has secrets that could not only undo his relationships, but perhaps himself as well…

—

I hope to write this story in earnest in 2022…. But for now, here’s a snippet I wrote when I first came up with the concept…. It l’s a bit clunky since I was figuring out the story as I went, but I like it bc it shows some of Agni’s relationship with each of his lovers…

It’s SFW but I’ll put it below the break since it’s long:

Agni stirred, slowly opening his eyes so they’d adjust quicker to the darkness. Light from the streetlights streamed in around the closed curtains in their bedroom, illuminating Sebastian’s form in bed. He sat upright, his legs straight, one hand supporting himself while the other vainly tried to work out the kinks in his spasming thigh muscles.

“Let me give you some morphine,” Agni murmured, shifting to face Sebastian.

Sighing, Sebastian glanced Agni’s direction. “You know how I feel about that stuff. I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep. You have patients in the morning.”’

“I hate seeing you in pain,” Agni whispered, laying a hand on Sebastian’s, feeling the twitch of the muscle in his leg through their connection.

Sebastian smiled wryly. “Is that Dr. Agni or Lover Agni speaking?”

Agni sat up and kissed the nape of Sebastian’s neck. “Do I need to choose?”

Sebastian hummed thoughtfully and leaned back into Agni’s chest, relaxing subtly when the larger man wrapped his arms around him. But not completely. He was still hurting. Agni knew him well enough to tell that much. But he also knew better than to press the issue.

Agni’s glance shifted to where Sebastian’s crutches rested against the wall, within his reach. He’d caught polio young, much younger than most, when he was only a toddler, and it had nearly killed him. But Sebastian was strong, and stubborn, and he’d not only lived, he’d broken free of the restraints of the iron lung and most of the limitations the doctors had insisted would chain him for life.

But he still suffered. Regular pain. And not just his legs, but his back and shoulders too, from supporting his weight with the crutches all day, every day. And his lungs were weaker than he liked to admit. Every winter, Agni feared that Sebastian would catch pneumonia and even his stubbornness wouldn’t be able to save him.

Sebastian sighed, stroked his thumb on Agni’s forearm. “I can hear you thinking.”

Chuckling, knowing he could get nothing by Sebastian, Agni admitted defeat. “I just worry about you.”

“Thank god Bard is working tonight or I’d drown in your combined worry. I’m not a damsel in distress.”

Agni toyed with the silk negligeé Sebastian was wearing, one of the straps fallen over his shoulder. He loved when Sebastian wore women’s clothes—so did Bard. He wasn’t even sure why. The kind of thing had never done it for him before. And women certainly didn’t. It had to be Sebastian. There was something about him. Something almost… mystical.

Planting a long kiss on Sebastian’s temple, Agni extracted himself. “I’ll make some tea. It’ll help you sleep.”

Sebastian adjusted the strap and then used both his hands to push against the mattress so his back was pressed to the wall. “I can make my own tea.”

“But this is special tea. An herbal blend I picked up from a doctor I know in Chinatown.”

“Pretty sure Lau isn’t a doctor and laces half his stuff with opium,” Sebastian muttered as he lit a cigarette, relaxing as the nicotine hit. Sometimes smoking could help the pain a little. Agni had tried to explain why more than once, but it went in one ear and out the other.

Not long after, the whistle of the kettle was silenced almost as soon as it had started, and Agni appeared with two steaming mugs from the direction of the kitchenette. “I promise, no opium. Why would I do that when you already turned down morphine?”

Sebastian smiled, accepting the mug in his free hand and taking a hesitant sip. It was herbal, but not medicinal tasting, and Agni had added some honey and lemon, making it surprisingly pleasant.

Agni carded his fingers through Sebastian’s long dark hair. Although both men and women tended to opt for shorter hairstyles nowadays—Agni included—Sebastian wore his down to his waist, sometimes elaborately styled, other times in a simple plait or bun. In the right clothes, one might even mistake him for a woman, and Sebastian honestly didn’t seem to mind.

Although Agni would be hard-pressed to admit he ever really understood what was going on in Sebastian’s head.

“It would be a shame to cut it,” Agni murmured without thinking as he let the smooth, straight strands slide through his fingers.

“Hmm?” Sebastian finished his cigarette and put it out in the remains of his tea. A habit that deeply offended Agni but that he hadn’t managed to cure either of his lovers of.

“I like your hair long, that’s all.”

Sebastian turned and kissed Agni’s wrist, flashing one of his telltale smirks, “I’m glad you approve, not that I need anyone’s approval.”

Agni took Sebastian’s cup, without much resistance, thankfully—perhaps the medicinal herbs in the tea had worked and eased his pain—and carried them to the sink.

As he washed the dishes, he recalled his own long-haired days, back in India, when he was younger and wilder. Before his previously absent British father took an interest in him and had him shipped off to England for a “proper” education.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Sebastian had drifted off, curled up on his side as much as his legs allowed. Nothing but the clicking of the overhead metal fan and his soft breathing filling the room.

Sighing in relief, Agni gathered a blanket from the end of the bed and draped it over Sebastian, adjusting his legs subtly and observing the tea did appear to have helped relieve the spasticity in his weak leg muscles.

The sound of the front door unlocking and opening caught him by surprise as he spied the hour on the bedside clock.

He re-emerged into the front of the apartment in time to see Bard enter, his usual cigarette hanging from his lips as he plucked off his hat and hung it up, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Something happen?” Agni asked in a low voice, gesturing so Bard would understand that their lover had finally fallen asleep. Both men knew how much of an insomniac Sebastian could be, so when he did find rest, they didn’t dare disturb it.

“Damn dry agents came sniffing around and we had to bust up before we lost the whole goose.” Bard blew out a plume of smoke angrily. “No work, no pay for the night, neither.” He cursed, but kept it quiet. “Bad night?” Bard’s features softened as he nudged his head toward the bedroom.

“No more than usual, thankfully. I’m glad he wasn’t playing tonight, though.”

Bard nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

Sebastian earned half his income by teaching piano, voice, and violin in their home, and the other by playing solo or with the jazz band at the speakeasy where Bard worked as muscle. It was how they met.

Sebastian loved the energy of Jazz and the bar, but if Agni had his way he’d never work there again. For one, Agni didn’t trust the scum who ran the place, a man known only as “Undertaker,” and for another, in Agni’s opinion, it wasn’t good for Sebastian’s health. But he also knew the only one who could decide to stop playing the club was Sebastian himself.

Well, now he knew. They hadn’t been together long when he’d first suggested Sebastian quit, and he’d gotten a defensive welt on his arm from one of Sebastian’s crutches and a threat to leave and never come back if he was going to keep that attitude up.

Bard beelined for the kitchen, Agni hot on his heels. “Cool it, Doc. I’m just gonna fix a sandwich.”

Agni still watched him; last time Bard had used the stove “just to make eggs” they’d been out their month’s rent, deposit, and kicked to the curb, not to mention the repair damage. They’d been lucky the whole building hadn’t caught fire. And it wasn’t easy to find a place that was willing to rent to a cripple, a “n***ar,” and a drunk.

Agni hadn’t liked Bard at all when they’d first met. He seemed every bit the stereotype of the brutish, uneducated American. Some days, Agni still wasn’t the biggest fan of the brash blond. But he wasn’t a bad sort, and he loved Sebastian. Would die for him. Probably Agni, too, at this point. And he was good in bed. Agni had to give him that.

Bard sank into a chair and lit another cigarette. Eating and smoking at the same time. Honestly, Agni was surprised the man hadn’t figured out a safe way to smoke in his sleep. “Creeps me out when you go all quiet like that, Doc.”

Agni sighed. Sometimes he wondered how insane he was to think he’d let Sebastian convince him into taking in this oaf. “Unlike you, I occasionally do this thing called thinking.”

Bard snorted before remembering Sebastian was sleeping and stifling his laughter. “Still can’t tell when you’re just pulling my leg or if you hate my guts.” He exhaled with a grin, smoke briefly filling the air before dissipating.

Agni smiled. He strode to the table and plucked the cigarette from Bard’s lips, taking a puff. He didn’t smoke habitually the way his lovers did, but he did partake on occasion. He gripped the back of Bard’s hair, matted from his hat, and tugged to force the blond’s gaze up as he loomed over him. “Could be both.” He licked his lips.

Bard’s eyes shone, his own tongue darting out. “If we fuck, we’ll wake Sebastian.”

Chuckling, Agni set the cigarette aside and traced Bard’s Adam’s apple with one long finger. “I have ways of keeping you quiet.”

“Tempting,” Bard said, eyes fixed up on Agni’s. “But you should hit the sack. Can’t have you falling asleep when you’re out being all Dr. Jesus to the poor at the clinic tomorrow.”

Agni tugged harder, making Bard wince. “Remind me to fuck that attitude out of you next opportunity.” He let go suddenly and strutted off toward the bedroom, ignoring Bard’s amused chuckle.

[i-am-binket]

I started watching the sandman here are my notes

Sandman watch notes

Ep 1 sleep of the just

I'm sorry Neil gaiman but what the fuck. x5

Omfg when will people learn not to revive the fucking dead DDDDD

I want to see this man's face when he realizes death is a black woman

BRO THIS MANS VOICE-

Eyo this dude's cloak- DON'T TOUCH HIS SHIT

Is this man naked? Yes. He is.

Bro this dude IS A FUCKING SKELETON

what is this man's accent?

At least give this man some clothes, jesus

The look on this man's face- no. Alex, he is not alright in there.

Stan Jessamy

I WAS JUST ABOUT TO TYPE IF "THIS BIRD DIES I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD" AND THEN SHE WAS LITERALLY SHOT WHAT THE FUCKKKK JESSAMYYYYYYYYYYY 

Kill his ass kill his ass kill his ass-

Kill his ass kill his ass kill his ass-

RUN BITCH RUN

Gayy?? Gayyy!!

Of course she named her child Johnny

DON'T SHOW YOUR BOYFRIEND THE MAN YOU HAVE TRAPPED IN YOUR BASEMENT

Well, you know, at least we have gays in the 1920s 

This man is a fucking cryptid

*GASP* THERES A CAT

I wonder if his lips just look like that, or if he makes them look like that

I also wonder if that's his natural voice 

Stan lucienne 

There's a character called Matthew the raven and I am excited

Ep 2 

Oof

Corinthias kinda a vibe tho- I mean, he kills people, but he's kind of a vibe

OH MY GOD PATTON OSWALT IS THE RAVEN 

This man is a wet rag

They be Killin a Lotta animals on this show

Stan lucienne

Fuck you, I'm crying- GREGORYYYYYYY

bro, I'm so confused, what is canon in this universe? Jesus? Greek mythology? ???

Even the edge lord is unsettled by the woman deep throating a snake

CLARAAAAA

Girl boss Ethel 

OH, EW THERE ARE TEETH IN HIS EYES WHAT THE FUCK

CORINTHIAS IS NO LONGER A VIBE FUCK CORINTHIAS

oh shit girl boss Ethel

GIRVINGGGGG

I think you're projecting a bit. Able

Ep 3

CLARAAAAAAAA

"Can't keep God waiting I love this woman 

Oooohh this show likes its body horror

Girl boss girl boss girl boss

He's honest

MATTHEWWWWW

SHES GAYYYYYYYY

Bro this show is not afraid of body horror, they go all out

Matthew my beloved

Man's really just trauma dumping out here

Ep 4

Bro what the fuck is happening, this is like an ad-libbing dick measuring contest

Bro you can't die its episode 4

This is a Matthew Stan account

Bro why you hate him so much he's just a dude

"I've met satan. She's a woman."

Ep 5

"I'm mark." "And I'm gay, so."

Bro this guy is sus as fuck 

Ooh he startin shit

You're gonna cheat on your partner while he's in the house?

Man's is just eating a tub of ice cream while 3 different pairs of people are fucking in the background

Ep 6 

There is not a briancell between these two

Cant imagine death being a people person

I'm 20 minutes in and I feel like I've been here for over an hour

Dream bein a Lil sus

CLARAAAAAA

Ep 7

"She is a woman" ah, yes, now you can seduce him

Why do people have sex in other people's beds?

Matthew my beloved

[needahugfromesme]

hello! Sorry to bother but I was reading your fics about Carine x Esme, by the way I discovered a love for them, and I wonder if you have a headcanon about them?? And if you have any idea about how they get legally married (how, when, where) ?

Hi !😄 Sorry, I can't remember which fanfic you’re referring to, but caresme is definitely one of my favourite couples in twilight au. Thank you so much for sending me this ask!

1. Esme was deeply influenced by her first encounter with Carine when she was 16. Carine's beautiful face, her gentle voice, and the fact that she was a woman who studied and became a doctor quickly attracted Esme's admiration. She often dreamed about Carine after that, about them becoming best friends, about her running away from the farm to live with Carine in the west.

2. At the moment when the newborn Esme felt desperate and helpless, Carine gave Esme the silver cross she had worn for many years. At the moment Carine touched her hand, Esme felt as if she heard her long-silent heartbeat, and her palm and cheeks burned like fire. From then on, every time Esme touched the cross she could think of the feeling of Carine's fingertips. She remembered all her dreams about Carine but with completely different meanings.

3. The 17th-century medical and religious education made Carine associate pleasure with penetrative sex and procreation. But to a certain extent, she knew she was different. She was drawn to Jacob Van Loo's Amarillis Crowning Mirtillo, the Story of Iphis and Lanthe. It frightens her, and the more devout she became the deeper her desire was buried, even herself could not remember. For the next 200 years, she never yearned for a man or a woman.

4. Unable to see Esme, who was physically three years older, as her daughter, Carine considered Esme as her sister. But it wasn't long before unsourced possessiveness took hold. She began to hate Edward for taking Esme hunting and was jealous of Esme and Edward's frolic. Thinking that Esme had once had a husband, that she had liked men, Carine began to fear that Esme would fall in love with Edward. Even Carine herself did not understand her jealousy, and her denial of her identity made her mistakenly believe that she was jealous of Esme for stealing Edward. Envy produced alienation and indifference. Carine began to blame Esme for wearing her clothes without her permission, disdained the flowers Esme brought home and stopped welcoming Esme to study, all of which hurt Esme.

5. It was not until Esme goes into complete shattering and breakdown after killing a human that Carine's great fear of losing Esme again finally made her realize that it was Edward she had been jealous of. She wanted Esme, wanted Esme just for her, her smile, her hugs, her body...

6. The collapse of old cultural values and the popularity of Freud’s psychoanalysis in the 1920s also pushed Carine to re-examine her repressed feelings for Esme.

7. For a long time, neither of them felt like the other would see them as lovers. Carine thought Esme liked men. Esme could not see the desire behind Carine's courtesy. Their intimate gestures, cuddles, emotional support, leaning on each other to read and braiding each other's hair were interpreted as innocent female friendships. Until after countless months of pained doubting and longing, Edward decided to intervene.

8. After Carine returns from a charity ball at the hospital with the smell of cigars, Esme and Carine got into another pointless fight. After Carine spilled the beans and said that she loved Esme, Esme took the initiative to kiss her.

9. For decades, they saw each other as soul mates and did not care about the “marriage” as recognized by human law. Still, after Massachusetts legalized same-sex marriage in 2004, they got married at the City Hall and got their marriage license. Carine wanted God’s blessing, and in 2015, they had another ceremony at the church.

[xxxsweetdreamzxxx]

warnings/tags: dom!wonho sub!reader, fluff, smut, fanfic; cursing, railing, unprotected sex, hook up, size kink, other types of filth

summary: your first encounter with your new nextdoor neighbor turns steamy

word count: 2k

===============================

Had this dream and decided that Wonho was a good fit to replace the rando my mind made up. Didn't require much editing, so this is straight from my messed up subconscious. Hope you enjoy!! ;>

and yes, I am a certified Wonho simp. (′ꈍᴗꈍ‵)

===============================

You glanced up past the tops of the skyscrapers of Manhattan at the gray sky and sighed, pulling your coat tighter around you in the cool air. Seeing the older structure that was your apartment building in front of you, waves of relief washed through you. Getting excited to head inside and warm up a little, you thought: 'Another day of work over, time to relax.' But as you neared the entrance, you heard a voice behind you. 

"Goddamn." A man muttered under his breath. "What's your name?" He said a little louder so you could hear, his tone indicating obvious interest. 

Fighting back a sigh and without looking his way, you replied: "Sorry, I'm not interested."

Despite wanting to desperately go inside, you turned and headed back the way you came, thankful he didn't follow. You figured it wasn't a good idea for him to know where you lived. Once out of sight of your building, you decided it was probably safe to head back.

Approaching your building for the second time, you could see no one stood outside the building, so you entered. Heading up one flight of stairs onto the second floor, you made your way into the hallway and to the second door, reaching into your pocket for your keys. Unlocking your apartment door, you went in and closed the door behind you. 

Glancing around, you could see your bed in the corner, the small two-person couch against the opposite wall, and the kitchenette near the door that consisted of only a mini fridge and tiny stovetop. The wall furthest from the door had a window with it's curtains drawn to the sides, letting natural light in. A door along the wall with the couch lead to your bathroom. You didn't mind living in a one room apartment much, its location was amazing - and something you cared more about then the square footage. 

Setting your keys down on top of the mini fridge, you changed into some more comfortable shorts before moving towards the couch, reaching for the remote that was on the armrest as you sat down. Flipping on the TV situated across from you, you turned on the show you were watching last night before bed. Taking place in the 1920s or so, it was about some rich influential family and their daily lives. Of course, more drama filled than it would've been in reality. One of the younger couples in the family had been slowly growing closer, and you were just waiting for them to hook up. You secretly hoped today's episode would deliver. 

To your delight, it didn't take long for the episode to go where you wanted, with the couple locking themselves in a bedroom late at night and climbing onto their canopy bed. The girl's soft moans made you turn down the volume and pray to god that no one could hear anything through your thin apartment walls. It began to pour outside your window, thankfully drowning out some of the noises coming from your TV. You curled yourself up in a ball and watched the semi-pornographic scene play out, feeling satisfied in the direction the show was going.

You were so wrapped up in the show that it took a second for you to process that the sound you heard was a knock at your door. 

"Fuck." you hissed under your breath, scrambling to pause the show on a frame that wasn't too suspicious. 

You left the remote on the seat you'd been sitting on and hurried over to the door, which didn't have a peep hole so there was no way to see the person on the other side. 

"Yes?" You question through the door. 

A man's voice answered. "Sorry to bother you, but I forgot the key to my apartment nextdoor and got caught in the rain on the way back from work. I don't have anything out here to dry off with and my roommate doesn't get back until a few hours from now. Could I please borrow a towel?" 

He sounded familiar somehow, you felt like you'd heard his voice recently but couldn't place where. He did sound desperate...

You opened the door. The poor guy was drenched and shivering, and looked at you in embarrassment. His expression then seemed to turn to recognition of some kind. Even though the way he carried himself seemed sweet and innocent, he was tall and you could tell that under layers of winter clothing was nothing but muscle. Despite feeling a little uneasy being alone with such a large man, you beckoned him to come inside. 

You took in his appearance further as he hesitated a bit before doing so. His wet dark hair was plastered flat across his forehead, his equally dark eyes looked tired. His red cheeks and nose stood out against his pale skin, and you wondered how long he'd been out in the cold. Even in such a disheveled state, his perfect visuals made you feel flushed in the face. He was prettier than any man - no, person - you'd met before.

"I- I'm y/n by the way." You wanted to slap yourself for stuttering. "You can stay here until your roommate gets back, I'd hate for you to be standing in the hallway the whole time." 

"I'm Hoseok," The man replied, "and I can't thank you enough." He smiled gratefully at you, making your heart skip a beat. 

You averted your gaze to quickly duck into the bathroom, getting him a towel. You gave it to him and showed him where he could sit on your couch, the seat next to where you'd been sitting before.  You could notice he was still shivering after sitting down. 

"Would you like some hot tea to warm you up?" You asked. 

He gave you another grateful smile. "Yes." 

You headed over to the kitchenette to heat up some water, pulling out two mugs for your tea. You continued the conversation, talking about work, the weather, city life, etc. until before long you'd finished making the tea and headed back to the couch to keep talking, sitting down next to him. 

You learned he was a mailman of all things, and funnily enough he delivered mail to the building you both lived in. He'd moved in with his roommate only recently, an old friend from high school. You'd met the roommate a few times, out in the hallway and such. You had no idea a second person had moved in.

Then there was a pause in the conversation, and his eyes drifted over to the TV. He noticed that it was on, but paused. 

"What you watching?" He asked in a teasing tone. 

"Oh, ummm," you trailed off, "It's nothing."

"Can I see?" He teased further, a slight smirk on his lips. "Its nothing bad is it?" 

"No, I just forgot to turn it off." You say quickly. 

At that, you went to grab the remote where it lay, on the opposite side of you than he was. A bit surprised by your quick motions, he tried to reach over you to grab it and press play, curiosity overtaking him. Trying to reach that far caused him to lean over quite a bit, too much. Nearly collapsing on top of you, the weight of his body pushed you down onto the couch underneath him. You yelp in surprise. 

Completely engulfed in his shadow, you look up at him, who seems equally surprised by the awkward position he got you both into. He held himself up with his arms on either side of you, but didn't climb off. You can see blush across his cheeks, your own face feeling hot. Something in his previously sweet and tired eyes changes, and his eyes move down to your lips. 

The next thing you know, your lips are crashing against his, and he pulls you into an upright position, placing you on his lap. He runs his fingers through your hair; neither of you stopping to take a breath. You can feel your panties already starting to get damp, clinging to your clit. Moaning softly against his lips, you began to grind your hips against his, feeling a growing bulge underneath you. Seeing this as an invitation, he swiftly picks you up and starts moving you across the room in the direction of your bed. 

Without unlocking his lips from yours, he splayed you out across your bedsheets beneath him. The feeling of being trapped under him only makes you wetter. He begins to grind his hips in rhythm with yours, the fabric of your shorts and his pants brushing against each other. His hands begin to feel you up, finding every curve on your body through your clothes. He then takes them down to the waistband of your shorts, wasting no time in using it to pull them off, along with your panties. 

He then tugs impatiently at your shirt, and you help him to remove it before placing your hands on his belt, fumbling with the clasp. He tugs his shirt over his head before helping you to remove his belt and then his pants. You use your own hands to explore his abdomen, feeling his hard abs between your fingertips. He definitely worked out a ton.  

You then felt his erection brush against your inner thigh, more apparent through the much thinner fabric of his boxers. Although, you wanted to feel it without the boxers. Your hands drifted lower, letting him know to remove them. He did so without hesitation, groaning in satisfaction now that his cock was freed from any restrictive fabric. The pace of your kisses slowed down a little as he spread your legs a bit more, then teased your folds with his tip. The contact with your dripping pussy caused you to moan louder than before. 

He moved his lips onto your neck, marking you as you waited for his next move - which apparently was slamming into you hard like a truck. You sharply sucked in a breath and unintentionally clenched your walls around his dick, causing him to moan against your neck. Tears rolled down your cheeks, caused by momentary pain. Relaxing a bit, you tried your best to match your thrusts with his again. He pushed in forcefully until he was balls deep. He was so large, he filled you up completely. 

Seeing your sweat and tears, he looks into your eyes with slight concern and speaks for the first time in minutes. "You okay?" 

"Mhmhmm." Is all you can reply. In reality you were much better than okay. 

He presses his lips back onto yours before pulling out and ramming back into you aggressively several times, causing lewd noises to escape you both. Feeling his orgasm approaching he pulls out quickly,  leaving you a sweaty mess. Only seconds later hot strings of cum splash against your inner thighs, spilling onto the bedsheets. Squirming a little at the tenseness there, you begin to move your hand down but he pins it to the bed, making you whine. 

"So needy." He comments before using his own fingers to rub fast circles on your clit. 

You arch your back - somehow him doing that feels better than you could ever make it feel. It doesn't take long before a feeling near your tummy begins to build up, your hips grinding a little faster. Before you can remove your lips from his to warn him, you release onto his hand, your nerves relaxing as you ride out your orgasm beneath him. He pauses to lick you off of his fingers, causing you to blush. 

"Fuck, you taste so good." 

After finishing every last bit, he lies down next to you onto the bed, snuggling you up against him. All of the sudden it seems he's gone back to his sweet and innocent self, despite what just occurred. Your kisses become softer until you eventually stop, he wraps his arms around you, and you bury your head into his chest. After a while, he speaks out in a soft and quiet voice. 

"So, what was it you were watching?"

You smile bashfully. "It was a sex scene in a show I've been watching."

He chuckles and pulls you closer. "You're so cute y/n."

[apinchofm]

Writing prompt: Baldwin proposes to Miriam.

I've written their proposal! Here it is!

Baldwin doesn't expect Miriam to be at his apartment. He thought she would've spent more time with her son. But she was here, sitting and tapping her foot nervously.

"How is Jason?" Baldwin asks as he removes his coat.

"Well, he's doing well" Miriam answers as if just trying to get to another conversation. A conversation Baldwin doesn't want to have.

"I have reservations for dinner," Baldwin announces as he puts his briefcase away.

"Why?" Miriam asks. Baldwin looks at her, a bored look on his face.

"Because I'm hungry and I would like to take you out to dinner?"

Miriam rolls her eyes "No, why have you continued, all this time, with me?"

"I told you." Baldwin simply replies, walking into the bedroom to change his shirt.  He doesn't want to fight about this. "Now are we going to dinner or not?" Miriam follows him, watches as he changes.

Baldwin De Clermont is one of the most frustrating men she's ever met. For a man who has courted war after war, he doesn't like getting into fights with her. They happen, of course. That's when they have a lot of fun.

That doesn't mean he enjoys upsetting her.

"I'm sorry," Miriam pulls her jumper sleeves over her hands, a sign she is nervous. She hates wrinkling cashmere.

"You have nothing to apologise for," Baldwin states. She shouldn't apologise for the fact that she loved another. "Our relationship is fine as it is, I'm not angry with you".

Miriam hesitates before walking up to him, fidgeting. "I think I'm ready". Baldwin pauses as he finishes with a cufflink.

"Don't rush into something to please me, Miriam" Baldwin tells her sternly. "Don't". Don't give me hope. Baldwin has slightly resented the fact that he sits in the shadow of a dead man. But he respects Miriam far too much to express that. It's better to have a part of her than lose all of her.

Life isn't fair.

"It's not about you. I love you-" She insisted.

"And you still love Bertrand. That's okay" He growls slightly. He's starting to get annoyed. Why did he tell her? He should've continued lying as he had previously.

"No, I do" She groaned in frustration. God, she wishes he wasn't so bloody understanding. She marched in front of him "Listen to me. Lucius" She grabs his head, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Please understand. "I love you".

Baldwin wraps his hands around hers, not to pull them away. He searches her dark eyes. Love, desperation but mostly love. She loves him.

"I love you too".

"Ask me. Please" She whispers. She can't ask him. Not because she's weak. But he knows she can't.

Instead of answering, he kisses her. Then walks past her, grabbing a jacket.

"Dinner?"

They go to dinner and Miriam tries to pretend that she isn't upset.

Miriam leaves the bedroom the next morning. Baldwin hadn't come to bed, going straight to his office.

As she walks, she stops in the living room, where Baldwin is sat, obviously waiting for her. He's facing the door, in the same clothes he wore last night. There's a small leather jewellery box on the coffee table.

Baldwin watches as she kneels in front of the coffee table, carefully opening the box. She assumes it to be a simple trinket of sorts, an apology for not proposing or accepting her proposal.

A golden band with a ruby from the family collection set in the middle, surrounded by smaller diamonds. Simple but dramatic in its own, distinguished way.

"When did you get this?" Miriam asks.

"My father had it made during the 1920s" Baldwin explains "I suppose he was trying to tell me something." Philippe always knew his son better than he knew himself. He knew that Baldwin had wanted Miriam. It was just a matter of when.

"You won't get down on one knee?" Miriam asks, fiddling with the box. She hadn't taken the ring out.

"Still assuming that you're superior to me?" He replies in a teasing manner. Miriam finally looks up at him, a soft smile on her face.

She crawls over to him, nudging his hand. Baldwin strokes the side of her face as she places a kiss on his hand. Miriam climbs onto his lap, Baldwin wrapping his arms around her. He's tempted to undo her silk robe and have her right there and then.

"Ask me," Miriam whispers against his lips. "Ask me."

"Marry me." Baldwin replies, pressing a kiss to her lips, "Mate with me?" They kiss, sealing the arrangement.

Miriam gently grips his chin so he is looking up at her. "Promise me one thing?"

"Name it" He would give her anything. 

"Stay with me?" She asked the same of Bertrand. He couldn't answer her. Then he died. She can't do that again. Perhaps that is why she loved Baldwin. He was consistent in everything he did.

"I promise." Baldwin leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. And he means it. He couldn't understand why Bertrand could ever imagine leaving her. Why anyone ever would.

[softkuna]

Sukuna || Interview || Fic

Part 1

Content   ║  Punk!Sukuna x reader. There is an oc version here.

Beauty wasn’t in the eye of the beholder, no, it is in the mind. Sukuna was enraptured. Addressed again, he shifted his posture, leaning into the arm of the couch as she did with her chair. The two were close in their cohort. An air of comfortable conversation lingered between them, much to his dismay. Her question wasn’t unusual. He’d been asked it in the beginning of his career and one where he had a planned answer.

Count      ║ 2,626 K

Consider ║ Swearing. Female Pronouns (she/her).

Creator   ║ This is the reader version. I took the name of the oc out. Hopefully the double post isn’t too weird? I did research on punk fashion, culture, and all which was really interesting. I knew some stuff about it before, but it’s really rich! I hope it’s not too information dense for you guys. Either way, Punk!Sukuna is now my comfort au and writing him is an absolute delight!! Also, Sorry for changing from ‘you’ to she/her ;v; it’s a lot easier for me to write/edit this way.

Sukuna had a lazy grin as he lounged back into a modern cream sofa. His arm stretched across the back of it, ankle crossed over his knee. Eyes staggered from the two cameras set up to the woman talking with some other chick. One held a small stack of papers, the other was grandly gesturing. He breathed out a short-stop breath, wishing they wouldn’t waste his time with bickering. Annoying as it was, it left a thick self-satisfactory lather over his ego.

  “-didn’t you say the band?”

  “Yeah, but this is better.”

  “Sure… but what happens if-“

  Quite frankly, he hated most press and avoided it, so to just have him in the hot seat was a double-edged blade. They didn’t get the whole band, but they did have The King himself. Whatever publicity he thrived off of were live shows, signings, fancams, tangible and real-time events. Interviews were a complete and utter waste of his time. He did a couple in the beginning, but found them pointless, callous even. They all asked the same shit. So, him coming alone was absolutely a note to pin to the fridge, even if it were a passive-aggressive post-it note.

  His head turned to the two going back and forth. It wasn’t until the third minute ticked by that Sukuna felt the flashpoint of his blood plummet, “Yo! We doing this or what? You’re wasting my time here, Eros.”

  The blogger whipped her head to the man with an indignant, “Excuse me?”

  “Eros. Known for being reckless and unreliable? Like your scheduling.” He leaned forward, elbow on knee and chin in palm. The aura of shit-eatery exponentially growing, “You’re not excused, sorry, not sorry Princess.”

  “I think you have the wrong God,” She quipped as she dusted off the front of her outfit. It was a smart look and an intentional one for an interview with a punk rocker. What would strike the best complement than a khaki academic outfit? It consisted of a white high collared button up, sleeves billowing before cinching at her wrists. The blouse was stuffed into high-waisted, cuffed khaki chinos, pleated at the center of each pant leg. Over top, a gray woolen sweater vest. Accessories included various silver rings, a black ribbon to tie under the folded collar, and small silver studs as earrings. Makeup remained that done-up natural with brow, liner, and mascara. Hair had been swept into something similar to a faux 1920’s bob, pulled loosely back. The overall silhouette made the perfect contrast.

    Sukuna wanted to peg her as your average superficial fashion bitch, he really did. Even at the concert, she dressed smartly despite the pathetic look on she wore on face. It wasn’t until afterwards when he saw the burn in her eyes, that he craved for her to prove him wrong.

  Black flats clacked as she approached her own seat, a matching armchair to the couch. She held a certain command once she walked in, instructing him on where to be, which camera to look at, and what the introduction would be. He listened, admiring how her small frame moved to and fro, fixing up last minute edits on a paper, chattering with who he assumed to be a videographer. It was a whole production. One that was hers. The set itself was practically out of a home décor magazine. It was a general space used across the publisher, but she was born to be there. Deserved to be there. Her calculated glee and deliberate positioning of each member made him feel as though he were looking through a mirror.

  The interview process began.

  She sat professionally, legs crossed and leaning on the arm of her chair closest to Sukuna. He was unmoving, that slit to his lip curling upwards as the cameras began. She introduced the blog, the channel, her social media handles. With a smile, she introduced herself, “With me in this special is lead singer of Two Face, the King of Curses – Sukuna.”

  The camera panned to his lazy wave, “Yo.” He looked to her, she looked to him and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of interest. Maybe the man was meant for cameras after all.

  “After looking more into the punk scene, there’s a pretty interesting history behind it. Revolution, social discourse, poverty, violence, and unity. As someone in the scene, can you talk a little bit about what you know of the background?”

  Sukuna drank in her voice, smooth and warm like the steady strum of a bass guitar. For a moment, he wondered if she sang. He quirked a brow, “Sounds like you didn’t research enough to summarize it yourself,” Eyes flickered to her features, watching as slight annoyance crinkled onto her nose then smoothed, “Let me learn you, Daisy. Starting back from rock in the 50’s, take that, strip it, build it with shit you find in the backyard…” His wrist rolled as his harmonious voice sang on, lacking even a single stutter as he summarized the movement top to bottom, inside and out, “…So, people would make their own records, sell them in plastic bags, they’d scan and reprint photos to make their own ‘zines. Shit was hard to distribute without tech…”

  Much of his dissertation, she hadn’t even found on her own deep dive into the culture. Sure, the anarchist and nihilistic ideologies were well known to pretty much anyone who would listen, but the deep history and connection between communities was far beyond the surface scratched into.

  “There’s a crowd of sub-genres now. Fuck ‘punk is dead’ what even is that bull shit?” Sukuna scoffed, jerking his chiseled chin to the side, “Only thing that’s dead here is – ironically – peoples drive to change.”

  His interviewer sat in silence for a moment, mind spinning. He spoke in the way a well-educated University professor gave a dissertation to his peers, dripping in confidence from his storm of information. He was articulate despite the fowl language, even including a tie in to modern perception. Excitement curled into the recess of her mind. In a delightful turn of events, expectation and reality didn’t match up.

  She leaned forward slightly folding her hands over the arm of the chair, “That was comprehensive. Thanks!” She chuckled, causing the man before her to freeze and thaw with a nod. She continued, “With all of this mention of D.I.Y. culture in punk, let’s talk about Vivienne Westwood.”

  Sukuna kept his attention to her profile as she spoke to the camera, catching himself in the glow of her enthusiasm, “On Kings Road in England, she kickstarted the fashion movement into gear. Now, many would think that with a style such as this, it would’ve been hand-me-downs, pins, self-stitching, but contrary to this belief, many of the clothes in her store were expensive. Knock offs circulated, and seeing as much of it did have that hand-done finishing touch, many decided to take tailoring to their own hands…” Not that this was a competition, but she found herself trying to prove his ‘research’ comment wrong. Her ability to scour and exhaust her resources of fashion history is the furnace that kept her going and she would make it well known that she was not to be challenged.

  The approaching lurch of a stalemate stuck to the walls of the vocalist’s stomach. Something he didn’t think he’d feel for a while. Small stuff over here may not’ve known all there was about the cultural history, but he could feel the crashing wave of fascination washing over him as she spoke. Sure, some of it he knew. Some of it he naturally garnered from stylistic preference and others he learned for marketing, however there was just a certain target she aimed for with such precision that he bled a newfound admiration.

  Beauty wasn’t in the eye of the beholder, no, it is in the mind. Sukuna was enraptured. Addressed again, he shifted his posture, leaning into the arm of the couch as she did with her chair. The two were close in their cohort. An air of comfortable conversation lingered between them, much to his dismay. Her question wasn’t unusual. He’d been asked it in the beginning of his career and one where he had a planned answer. As practiced, “I ans-“

  “You’ve answered it already, yeah, I know. I saw the interview,” Her head tilted to the side, pleasant smile hinting at her trick, “but enlighten me for a second about how your natural style transitioned to what it is on stage. We’ll put up some of the photos taken from last night here,” her hand gestured to some empty space, “You basically turned chiaroscuro and made it a performance. It’s obvious in how each member contrasted with themselves and the stage.”

  The chick didn’t even know who he was a week ago, yet somehow watched every interview since the start? An answer tumbled from the tongue readily, “Punk is like a renaissance of music. Like I said before, it tore down the foundations of what was before and built something new out of it.” The words were succinct, but as her pretty lashes bat, he was goaded into continuing, “Contrast is important. I like art. I like plays. Just ‘cause it’s punk doesn’t mean I can’t have it look aesthetic? Or is that a word only snobby fashion journalists can use now?”

  “Hm. Change ‘journalist’ to ‘vocalist’ and you’re a word away from meeting the requirement,” It was a sour candy treat traded for his lemon warhead.  

  “Ouch. Miss Blog-Spot here has some sass,” His large frame leaned further into the armrest, cheek resting on that fist.

  “Mister Eight-Track here is some a–“

  The videographer clapped his hands, “We have sponsors, you know. We can at least censor him.”

  It was Sukuna’s time to laugh a loud, hyena-like cackle. A large hand smacked his leather-clad knee. She scrunched her nose again, biting back her tongue from childishly jutting out at him.

  As soon as the videographer clapped his hands again, she recollected herself, shuffled her papers, and continued on, “From what it looks like, you took a mixture of old and new high-trend brands and added a touch to them to keep with theme. Even now, you’re wearing a Real McCoy with cone spikes embedded. Is that custom made? McCoy isn’t cheap.”

  Part of him hated her keen eye, but reveled in her raw talent all the same. “I’m not going to bull shit you and say I dumpster dive for my clothes. I like high quality things. What’s the point in making money if I can’t spend it? What’s a bigger ‘fuck you’ than having your version of a top-brand item being worth more than the original?” With a proud glint in his eye, he rolled the jacket off, sure to make a grand display of strong, bare arms as he did so. The muscle tank he wore was similar to the concert before, white with a pocket, neckline was stretched and worn. It hung over the dense muscle of his shoulders and chest. Sukuna could feel the trail of her eyes on him. His chest puffed from her approval. He threw the jacket over his knee, flipping the leather inside out to show where the studs had been placed, “See this? Did it myself.”

  Manicured fingers touched the inside of the jacket, thumbing the connecting points that the studs were pressed in by and sealed. The work was immaculate. Sukuna leaned back, canines gleaming as he saw her mouth move in a silent ‘wow’. He picked the front of his tank top, snapping it up and allowing it to billow back to his body, “Embroidered this, too.”

  He waited for her comment, her praise. Why? Like he needed some two-bit Vanderbilt bitch’s validation. He chalked it up to being praised by a master of the craft. He hadn’t been prepared for her to take the fabric between her fingers and rub it, concentrated brows cinched like a corset. Well-toned abs flinched in response to her delicacy, but she didn’t notice.

  The embroidery was messy and chaotic, but it was obviously intentionally. The way the needlework was so clean, barely leaving a hole from the pull of the exceptionally soft fabric. It wasn’t floral like in the concert, but abstract stitching created crosses and streaks here and there, using the composition of the fabric as like it were a canvas. Experimentalist. It was like touching the work of Westwood herself.

  God, she hated how perfect it was. It squeezed her heart to know that he was so effortlessly multi-talented. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers once more, attention being stolen by his baritone voice. She could practically hear the treble in it, “Ey Princess, you think it’s okay to just touch me?” His breath caught under the arrogant teasing of his words. Not from the words themselves. Couldn’t care less about that. What choked him up was whatever resplendent emotion flared from them when she peered up to him.

  “Let me check the tag.”

  “What?”

  The blogger leaned back, cheekily snapping the shirt as she did so. “Your shirt, can I check the tag? I want to see what its made out of. Also, sorry.”

  Sukuna blinked twice, mouth stupidly hanging open before he leaned forward, “I’ll allow it.”

  He may have tinnitus, but he wasn’t deaf enough yet to miss the mocking ‘I’ll allow it,’ muttered under her breath. He wanted to laugh, but for the second time, the graze of chilled fingertips along his skin shut him up. Along the back of his neck, she fiddled to flip the collar and tug it. Her eyes squinted and a hum escaped her throat. Sometimes she wished she could read upside down. That’s when she sat on the back on the sofa and leaned closer, pulling the shirt to better read the small print. If Sukuna were a cat, he’d lean his head into her. The thought physically bothered him.

  “I knew it. It’s American Pima. Thanks for letting me check.”

  He missed the shiver her touch gave him as she sat back into her chair.

  “While I have more questions for you, this video’s gotten pretty long already, so we’ll have to cut it a bit short here,” She gave a closing statement, motioning for her guest to do the same. With a thanks, the cameras were cut.

 While the editor and videographer chatted together, She leaned heavily into the back of her chair, poised posture slipping into something more comfortable. Long lashes slid closed and a heavy drag of breath lifted her chest. Sukuna’s eyes trailed along her form, contemplating Eros once more.

  She exhaled sharply, “I do appreciate you coming on stage. It’s disgusting how talented you are.” She laughed, cracking an eye open to meet his, “I prepped a lot of questions thinking you’d be short with me. It’s a shame I only got to ask a few.”

  He was surprised himself. It was more than just her talent to make him talk - she may have been the first to see him as an opportunity rather than a commodity. ‘She would be the first and last reporter to see me as a meal’ was the thought he had going into this interview. He had every single intention to shut down her buffet, make it apparent that he was not to be dined on by a single soul. Yet, if his dish were ‘opportunity’, hers would be ‘intrigue’. He wanted to devour it, to know its palette and identify its spices. It was a compulsory urge to order, just to see why he craved it in the first place.

  “Film the next few concerts. Backstage.”

Tags:  @lovesakusa​

[persephoneist]

Hadestown Costuming and Anachronism

 It’s time for my love of fashion history to show because we’re talking about Persephone’s dress and how accurate it is to the time-period, and I wanted to clear up a few misconceptions about who and what is anachronistic and why certain costuming decisions might make sense despite not being 100% accurate to the time period that the show is modeled after. I also think that the cast is pretty put together, and that the color language works very nicely :D Info under the cut

Bway Persephone’s dress absolutely skews thirties in the silhouette, see here. Broad shoulders and long skirt+ cinched waist was the look du jour of the thirties. I’m pretty sure they only loosened up the skirt for mobility reasons, because Persephone has to dance in wdht. Fourties are defined by the starched collar, and narrow/square shoulders. (See that her wing-sleeves were not pulled outta nowhere lol).

I’d argue the outfits are not anachronistic, but rather the reminder of socioeconomic status; their outfits tell us more about their characters. Eurydice is probably wearing a nightgown, lbr she probably fished it out of some dump because it’s all she could afford to throw together to keep warm. And if we take the route that it’s not a nightgown, then looking at the silhouette gives me the same impression as a 1920′s flapper dress, though it’s a bit too short (most flapper dresses were about Persephone’s dress length). Esp when coupled with her dark eye makeup and clothing. While the shape of her dress is anachronistic, it could be forgiven because of the fact that Eurydice is probably not able to keep up with trends lmao

Same goes for Orpheus, all of his clothes are hand-me-downs from Hermes, so nothing is gonna look particularly shiny or interesting. Orpheus has a way less distinct silhouette, but he is slightly anachronistic because of his shirt. There’s not really much  to analyze there, but the loose sleeves and trousers give me very 1920′s leftover zoot-suit pants. I decided to include an analysis bc people give Orpheus’ costume unnecessary hate.

The fates have a similar silhouette to Persephone, so while they lack the shoulders, their waists are cinched in and the skirts aren’t particularly wide, except to facilitate dancing. I have some thoughts about the fates being inspired by Cuban santeras, too if you look at their head-wear and the flowiness of their dresses.This is one of the few pics where you see their sleeves properly, but the trim of their waist and the way their skirts flow are pretty time-accurate.

Hermes also gives me 30′s mens suits. Very shiny, ofc, but that was an intentional choice from the designer; to make the gods shiny and sparkly. Hermes and Orpheus even have the same pants shape (Orpheus also has the loose trousers), but I digress. See how his coat is fashionably long, and how he even has the loose legged pants? it’s just the colors and tassles, but those can be forgiven for the sake of showiness.

I think the one who looks the most weirdly anachronistic is Hades. His trousers are much thinner around the calf, but his coat is around the right shape and length. I think the decision to change his silhouette was to A. make him look more modern because of the industrious quality of his character and B. make him look more serious than Hermes, who has a far more expressive/joyful presence. Slight side-note but the cut of his suit is very 1920′s. It might be because of the prosperous 20′s, but Hades’ silhouette could be modeled after a 1920′s Mobster or just a wealthy 20′s man in general.

Last but not least, the workers: The workers are obviously inspired by 1920′s-30′s Appalachian coal miners, which is where the sexy minion outfit comes from. I refuse to look at the act i ensemble looks because you couldve fooled me if youd just told me they were randos from oregon.

Anyways. that’s my take on the whole thing, sorry for spamming this post with my infodump

[darlingsdevil]

Forever Preserved in A Frame

Summary: The Van der Linde gang is notorious for their outlandish Christmas parties, but John Marston will have none of that. It’s Christmas after all.

A/N: A Secret Santa gift to Seb from the @real-rdr-facts server! I hope you enjoy!

Tags: 1920’s AU

RDR2 Masterlist

Merry Christmas !

•••

The Van der Linde gang was notorious for its outlandish and extravagant Christmas parties. No expense was spared. The finest food, champagne, music, everything about the party was big. The gang’s largest speakeasy — a grand basement decorated with imported luxuries was the center of it all. The speakeasy was hidden underneath a bookstore, the gang owned the entire block of buildings, entrances could be made through any of the buildings. Bouncers stood watch at every hidden doorway, waiting for the passerby to mutter the password to get into the party.

Anybody who was anyone was at the party. Which meant Arthur was required to go. He hated those things. They were obnoxious. He hated making small talk with stupidly drunk corrupted politicians, bigwigs in companies who exploited their workers, rancid people he had no interest being near. But following Dutch and Hosea meant all the politics. They had a reputation to uphold, the entire party was one big business transaction. A show of sorts.

Arthur tightened the tie around his neck and placed his hat on his head, feeling the dread of the party creep on him.

“Come on, John!” Arthur yelled as he walked towards the front door, his voice booming through the spacious apartment. He tapped his foot impatiently, looking at the watch on his wrist.

Arthur sighed. “John!” He shouted again. No response. Where was the little bastard? He already had a headache..

He found himself at John’s bedroom door, he knocked on it loudly.

“Open the damn door, John.”

No response again. Arthur managed to get the door open, only to find it was empty. A cold chill filled the room. The window was wide open, the bedroom vulnerable to the frigid night.

Arthur cursed and rushed to the window. Footprints were on the fire escape, they were fresh too. The raging blizzard hadn’t covered them up entirely. John must have just left.

Arthur made it to the street shortly after that, following John’s footprints down the street into a back alley. They were going to be late. All because John decided to play runaway for the night.

He examined the footprints, they led up to a large electrical box, big enough to climb onto. The snow had been disturbed at the top of the box. John must have climbed on it. What the hell was John doing? From there, he could have jumped onto the fire escape and made it up to the top of the building.

Goddamnit.

Arthur would have to explain everything to Dutch and Hosea. Though he was worried about the younger boy, Arthur wasn’t foolish enough to search for him in a blizzard. John was smart enough to handle his own, he had been on the streets a majority of his life, one night was no trouble.

•••

The bouncers let Arthur into the club, he didn’t even need the password. The party was booming downstairs, as he walked down the steps he could feel anxiety bubbling in him. Small talk, stupid dances, schmoozing with rich folk was far from his style. Dutch and Hosea wanted him there.. so he had to be.

He fidgeted with his cufflinks nervously as he examined the crowd. Not many people he recognized, some people he recognized from TV, other people he had become acquainted with through business deals, some people just had the face of looking familiar. The crowd wore their finest clothes, pearls and lace, white gloves and fancy dress shoes all hidden behind snake eyes. It was all very nauseating to him. The chandelier and ice sculptures reflected the fakeness of the crowd.

He would have to grab Dutch and Hosea when they weren’t entertaining a large group of guests. The two men dazzled in the room, if it wasn’t for all the expensive decor they would be the brightest thing in the room.

Arthur was stuck sitting in an uncomfortable party while John got to do god knows what out in the middle of a blizzard, it was almost unfair. He grabbed a champagne flute from a server and leaned up against the wall.

“It’s almost romantic, isn’t it?”

Mary-Beth found him first. A young writer sponsored by Dutch because he was fascinated with her work.

Arthur looked at her curiously. She looked out into the crowd of people.

“You know, the waltzing, the music, the fancy dresses. It’s all so Victorian,” She said dreamily.

“These things get boring after awhile,” Arthur replied, boredom apparent in his face.

“It’s my first time coming to a party like this. It’s all so elegant.”

“I wouldn’t call it elegant.”

“Well, what would you call it?” Mary-Beth asked him, looking at him with curious eyes.

“Loud. Fake. Annoying,” Arthur grumbled.

Mary Beth scoffed humorously, “Aren’t you a Scrooge.”

“Only during these parties.”

“Well, Mr. Duffy has been eyeing me all night, I’ll leave you alone to whatever,” She gestured to Arthur’s wallflower appearance, “This is.”

“Hope you enjoy the rest of the party, Miss Gaskill,” He called out to her.

“As to you, Mr. Morgan,” She smiled sweetly as she waltzed over the room to Kieran.

The dancing picked up, Arthur watched as Mary Beth led Mr. Duffy to the dance floor, he looked nervous and giddy. The music was fast and fun, most people began gravitating to the floor.

Sean MacGuire, head of the smuggling business of Irish cream and whiskey danced drunkenly with Miss Karen Jones, heir to a banking fortune. She blushed each time Sean’s hand slipped further down her waist. Lenny Summers who owned a prominent publishing firm chatted with the drunken fools as well.

He wasn’t much for dancing, no one would ask him anyways.

•

It was only a matter of time before Dutch and Hosea found him. They came knocking midway through the night, when all the introductories were finished. Arthur had drank two glasses of champagne, it was rare he got to entertain himself with such a fine bottle. He didn’t even really like champagne but it was Christmas, he deserved to let loose through the only viable option.

“Arthur, my boy!” Dutch called out to Arthur, arms outstretched for a hug. Arthur hugged him,

“Where’s John?” Hosea asked, glancing around the room to spot the teenager.

Arthur drew a breath in as he began, “About that.”

Dutch and Hosea’s happiness fell from their face, that line was never good, especially coming from Arthur.

“He escaped the apartment right before we were going to leave. Followed his tracks, went to the rooftops, I wasn’t going to break my damn neck looking for him during a snowstorm so I came here instead.”

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Hosea asked.

Arthur shrugged, “Didn’t want to bother you. Figured he could handle himself for awhile.”

“You sure he wasn’t kidnapped?” Hosea said quietly, leaning in close to him.

Arthur nodded, “Only one set of footprints, I followed them all the way to the roof until I couldn’t anymore.”

It was silent for a moment as Dutch decided what to do.

“We can’t send any men out tonight, they’re drunk out of their minds and we can’t pay anyone to look for him. Streets are bare. I don’t think even the cops would look for him on a night like this,” Dutch replied, his brow furrowed as he worried about John.

“What should we do then, Dutch?” Hosea asked.

“Let’s get our coats. We have to look for him before it gets too late.”

•••

The whole car ride was near silent, the street was eerily but expectedly deserted. The streets felt almost ghostlike. It was late enough into the night that most people had retired from a night of partying, it was early to a gangsters standards but civilians were schedule abiding people.

They checked Arthur’s apartment first. He had slipped a paper in the door to see if John had come by. He hadn’t.

Then they checked the alley in which he had made his grand escape. Not there either. His prints were mostly covered. Arthur cursed John for being so foolish, he would no doubt get a scolding and Hosea’s unbearable look of disappointment. It’s what the little brat deserved, running off like that on Christmas.

They decided to check the waterfront. Dutch drove the car wordlessly as Hosea and Arthur both checked their sides of the street to see if there was any sign of him.

Nothing. Streets were bare. It was hard to see with all the snow too.

They decided to drive by Sisika Center, the tree loomed tall with its bright lights in front of Saint Denis’ largest building complex. It had been packed leading up to Christmas, but now not a soul was out. Couples and families gathered by the tree, but Arthur was never much fond of looking at a lit up dead tree.

There was no one there as expected, Arthur sighed at the sight. Where the hell was the stupid boy?

Suddenly someone jumped in front of the car, Dutch swerved the car quickly, swearing loudly as the harsh snow littered the windows.

Dutch lost control of the car for a few seconds until he regained it, he slammed on the brakes and everyone held their breath until they were sure the car had stopped moving.

“What the hell was that?” Arthur asked, his heart still beating loudly.

Hosea was already halfway out the car. “John!” He shouted.

Arthur and Dutch stepped out quickly, John was standing in the middle of the road, standing with his hands on his hips almost annoyed.

“Took you long enough!” He shouted over the storm.

“John! Get over here now!” Dutch bellowed, the headlights illuminated John in the road as snow swirled around him.

“Come on!” John shouted, turning tail and running down the street.

Arthur shared a glance with the two.

“Well go after him, Arthur,” Dutch said to him, pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering all sorts of insults.

Arthur set off after him, except John stopped right in front of the tree. Arthur was damn near ready to tackle the foolish boy, but there was something serene about watching his brother stare bewitched at the twinkling lights. Arthur caught up with him and stood in silence for a moment.

“Before you say anything let’s wait for Dutch and Hosea,” John said, his eyes remaining fixed on the tree.

Arthur let out a sigh of annoyance. Eventually they heard the crunch of footsteps against the snow.

“John! What the hell was that?” Dutch called out.

John was dressed for the cold, he had mittens, boots, a large coat and a hat. The rest of the men only had on their tuxedos and furs.

“I’ve been out here all night. I knew you’d show up.” He began to explain, turning to Dutch and Hosea.

“You’re always at that stupid party, I never get to see you during the holidays, and if I do you only show me off to your rich friends like I’m some charity case,” John said, frustration filled his voice.

Dutch and Hosea both frowned.

“For once, I want a real Christmas instead of some party with a bunch of strangers. Like a family would have.”

The storm had let up, instead the snow twirled lazily through the sky, causing the snow from the bright lights to look like diamonds falling from the heavens.

Dutch and Hosea looked at Arthur for some confirmation.

He shrugged, “I don’t like the party either.”

Dutch and Hosea stared at each other for a moment.

“Then let’s stay away from the party for the rest of the night, what do you say, Dutch? The boys deserve a real Christmas,” Hosea suggested. John broke out in a bright grin.

Dutch sighed and nodded, “Alright.”

Arthur was surprised at the stunt John had pulled, as much as he hated the party, it was definitely out there. In truth, he expected nothing less from the delinquent. Running off wasn’t anything special to him, but on the night of the party was. All to get Dutch and Hosea’s attention.

“Thank you,” John said sincerely, he was relieved Hosea and Dutch hadn’t yelled at him yet.

The snow continued to swirl, almost like ribbon.

“I almost forgot!” John said quickly, digging into his pockets, he pulled out a slip of paper.

He handed it to Hosea. Hosea smiled warmly and showed the picture to Dutch, then Arthur.

It was a photo of the four of them, sharing a laugh at a table, Arthur had placed his hat on top of John and John barely fit into it, the hat covered most of his view.

It was a nice memory, a few months back. So much had happened since then it had slipped all of their minds.

“Where did you get this?” Arthur asked, examining the back of the picture.

“Albert Mason took it when we were at the grand opening of Pearson’s restaurant, remember?” John replied.

“Ah, yeah, now I do.”

•••

They returned to the apartment, Dutch and Hosea swinging by their respective homes to retrieve the gifts they had bought.

John was ecstatic to open gifts in a home next to a fireplace rather than a spiffed up basement. He had gotten everything he had wanted. Arthur smiled warmly at the sight of it all. There was no party chatter, no drunken fools, no fakeness, it was all genuine. It was no performance. It was cozy and homely, and joyful and everything Arthur had secretly wanted out of Christmas.

The framed picture sat on the fireplace for years for many more Christmases.

Sometimes John liked to pick it up and show baby Jack the photo. The infant recognized all of them, and giggled happily at the sight of his father’s family. Many more memories had been made since then, but John liked to think this was where it all truly started. The parties were still thrown, this time moved from Christmas Day to Christmas Eve. Both John and Arthur were forced to attend.

John looked at the back. It was a distant memory now, though the picture had not collected dust.

John, Arthur, Dutch & Hosea

Circa 1924.

•••

[pradaksj]

Break Up With Your Girlfriend, I’m Bored [Teaser]

note: this is a future one shot, not a multi-chapter, but it is apart of my series, than u, next, which you can find ☞ here. feel free to comment or message me if you’d like to be on a tag list for when it’s posted . Also if you can please like & reblog as it’d be very much appreciated 😭🤍

estimated!publish date: september 25-28, 2020

♤ pairing: jungkook/reader

♤ genre: 1920′s au, burlesque/clubsinger!reader, infidelity au , major angst, smut.

♤ rating: mature

♤ word count: 700+

♤ warnings:  infidelity/affair plays a big role in story so please do not read if the topic makes you feel uncomfortable, [hint: y/n is not the one getting cheated on LOL]

♤ series masterlist

♤ summary: Once you were on that stage you were someone completely different, the manifestation of someone’s secret desire, becoming whatever image had of you in their head. Some days you were the innocent girl next door, other days the good girl gone wild, but the days he came you became what you had been for the past year, the other woman. 

━ ❝  You got me some type of way, ain’t used to feelin’ this way. I do not know what to say, but I know I shouldn’t think about it. Took one fuckin’ look at your face, now I wanna know how you taste… You can say I’m hatin’ if you want to, but I only hate on her 'cause I want you.❞

Jungkook sighs, flipping to the next document on his desk, a night full of work ahead of him. New clients needed to be accommodated, considering everyone wanted a piece of the pie that was the New York Stock Exchange.

Tonight it was raining, a downpour in fact, the prelude to an up and coming storm. The thunder already beginning to cry out from the sky above, the trees around his home writhing and flailing against his window.

He gets up from his desk to close the window as well as shut the blinds, turning on his shaded glass lamp, providing the dim lighting he always liked working in. The muffled sound of the rain was comforting as well.

Catherine was out to God knows where, mumbling something about a girl’s night out before walking out, which of course he didn’t mind, but it was getting quite late. He shrugs off the concern, instead continuing with his work.

He hears footsteps coming up the stairs, ah she must be back already, he thinks to himself. Suddenly he hears his office door open, “So you’re back already,” he states, not bothering to look up from his paperwork.

He’s met with silence.

When he looks up he’s taken back by the woman standing in front of him. Because there she was, hair and clothes drenched in water, mascara running down her eyes, and a haunting empty look in her eyes.

He quickly gets up, eyebrows furrowing in worry, “Why are you—Where—What happened?” he finally manages to ask, but she remains silent, staring off at the bookcase behind his desk.

“Catherine you’re soaking! I thought you went to Amelia’s?” he chides, but again she remains silent, until slowly she moves her pupils to his direction.

The two stare at each other for what seems like forever, words not having to be spoken in order to know what exactly was happening. He turns to break the gaze, the feeling of shame that he had been pushing off for so long bubbling in his stomach.

A low staggered laugh comes out of her mouth, steadily becoming louder and louder, booming across the room until tears are now falling from the corners of her eyes, as she goes into a fit of hysteria until finally she begins to sob. “I thought I could live with it,” she whispers in between, “I thought things were going to end at some point between the two of you—”

“Catherine,” he starts, but she’s quick to cut him off.

“But it never did!” she laughs, making a small motion to her head, “and it was there like an itch at the back of my mind all the time,” she lets out a breath in disbelief, “and I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Catherine, it’s not what you think it is,” he sighs, causing her to only laugh.

“She loves you, you know that right?” she bitterly scoffs, recalling your words from earlier, “And God help me, because I think you might love her too,” she finally cries out, finally saying the thought she’d kept buried in her mind for so long out loud. The feeling of suffocation finally coming to an end.

“For a wife to have to witness the entirety of her husband falling for another woman,” her voice trembles, “to have to witness the exact moment that you fell in love with her,” she whispers, vigorously shaking her head in denial,“ I don’t even wish that upon my worst enemy,” she lets out a choked sob.

All he could do is stare at her, no words at the tip of his tongue, nothing he could say or do to comfort her. “So,” she grimaces, as if fighting to get the words out of her mouth, but she needed to ask. She needed to hear him say it.

“Do you love her?”

He remains silent. He can’t even bring himself to deny it, she thinks to herself. You could hear pin drop fall at how silent the room was.

“I’m going to bed,” she whispers, the feeling of defeat physically draining her as she walks out of the room leaving Jungkook to stand there by himself, the thunderstorm outside finally coming to an end.

[theyreonlynoodlesmike]

Could you write about the boys (separately) reading with S/O. Do they prefer reading or being read to? What is their go to book? What is their favourite part of that book? Do they prefer books from their pasts or more modern books? If they don't like reading, do they bother S/O while they're reading? How?

OH I LOVE THIS ASK. Thank you so much for asking this and I hope you enjoy

The Lost Boys x Reading with their S/O

David

This boy isn’t the biggest reader of the four, but he still reads a decent amount. The boys had seen the development of the “moving picture”, but silent movies were still the only movies available until the 1920s. So, reading was still a big part of their early lives, even when things started to go on screen

David prefers to read, but he doesn’t mind being read to. He just likes to have control, and he likes to dictate how fast you end up going through the book. This way, he also gets to choose when you two stop, and, more often than not, he’ll read you a book that he’s already read. Books that he hasn’t read he’ll read by himself, and he’ll offer to read them to you if he liked them. He likes to have you lay your head on his chest as he reads to you, and he’ll run his fingers through your hair as his eyes scan the page. He knows he has a nice voice, and he definitely uses it to his advantage during these times. If you’re the one that’s reading, he’ll only half-listen. He’ll have you lay against his chest as you hold the book in front of you, sitting up against the cave wall. He’d rather use this time to run his fingers through your hair and kiss your neck, only purposely distracting you just a little bit.

David likes horror books, almost as much as he likes horror movies. His go-to book is Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, only because he’s read it so many times. He likes how descriptive it is, and how the monster is portrayed in the book (He hated the movie so much he almost wanted to burn down the theater he saw it in). He relates far too much to the monsters disdain for his creator, and draws far too many parallels between Frankenstein and his monster with his relationship with Max. His favorite part is when the monster tells of how he’s lived before he confronted Frankenstein, and it reminds him of the life he had before Max had found him and his boys. 

The only way he cannot relate to Frankenstein’s monster is with the loneliness the monster feels. David has always had his brothers, and, now, you. Though, he sees you as similar to the mate that Frankenstein’s monster had always dreamed of, and he smiles when he tells you that once after reading the book to you. You’d given his chest a small hit, reminding him that both the monster and his desired mate were supposed to be hideous. He’d smirked, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “We’re not exactly gorgeous when we wear our true faces, sweetheart.” He’d reminded you, and you’d rolled your eyes.

David likes gothic horror, but he’s a bit of a slut for Stephen King. King started releasing his books in the seventies, and David was just happy that more horror books were being written. He hadn’t expected to become such a fan, and he has a small collection of both his books and the movie adaptations. Though, he has varying opinions on all of them

Dwayne

This boy READS. He’s the most well-read of the boys, and, even as movies became more popular over the last century, he still reads more than anything. He’s had to see and sit through various movies because of the other boys, but Dwayne genuine prefers books. He’d rather spend two hours at the cave in his imagination as he scans the pages of whatever book he nabbed from the library than go to whatever movie the others picked. Movies are cool, but he didn’t really start paying attention to them until they were in color

Dwayne has so many books it’s a little insane. They’re stacked around the cave, and the other boys, if they want to read, never really have to go to the library or a store to find a new book to read. All they have to do is pick one from Dwayne’s stacks, and promise that it’ll be returned to it’s proper place. Dwayne has started writing his name inside his copies so none of the other boys can claim that it was actually theirs. He frowns whenever he sees a dog-ear or a ripped page, and he always gives whoever was responsible a death glare

Dwayne has spent so much time reading to himself that he practically melts when you offer to read to him. He’s not much of a talker, so he’s far too willing to cuddle with you on the couch and let you read your latest book to him. After that, he definitely prefers to have you read to him. Sure, he’ll read to you from time to time. Usually, when it’s late at night and you’re far too tired to focus on the pages. But, he’d much rather hear your voice make the authors work come to life. It’s a bit of a coin toss as to who will be read to, because you like to hear his voice as much as he likes to hear yours. Eventually, the two of you decide to take turns

His go-to book is a book that infuriates him. It’s The Trial by Franz Kafka, and the first time he read it he laid face down for nearly an hour. The others had asked him if he was okay, and he’d replied by giving them finger-guns. He proceeded to read the book over and over, trying to make sense of it because there had to be something he was missing. Something that explained the absurdness of the plot. His favorite part is the parable the priest gives him, and he once told it to Paul just to make him as confused as he had been the first time he read it. When you ask him for a book suggestion, he offers that one. A week later you throw your copy at him and yell at him for suggesting it. He laughs and catches it, as he knows exactly what you’re feeling. It’s a book he always suggests, mainly because, as far as he’s concerned, everyone should suffer reading it just as he had. The two of you will rant about it for hours

Dwayne will read anything. He’s not necessarily picky, and he’s read pretty much whatever book he could get his hands on. He can’t necessarily get a library card, so a lot of the books he has have to be found some other way. He doesn’t like to have to steal from the library, and prefers to either buy or steal a book from a bookstore on the boardwalk

Paul

Paul doesn’t read

The boy can’t sit still long enough to actually get into a book, and it wasn’t like movies weren’t already a thing. He quickly had a preference for them instead, though he finds it hard to sit through movies as they become longer and longer. Movies, specifically comedies, only used to be two reels long, which ran for about twenty minutes tops. As movies started hitting the hour and two hour marks, the other boys became accustomed to how much Paul would interrupt them

He will only tolerate books if you read them to him, but even then his attention isn’t guaranteed. He’ll spend the entire time kissing your neck and face, and he’ll try to tug any clothes that you’re wearing off your frame. Eventually, he’ll settle in bed next to you. It may take awhile, but Paul will finally lay down with his head on your chest and close his eyes as he listens to your voice. He’ll even lay still if you pet his hair, and he’ll nuzzle your chest if you begin scratching one of his sweet spots. Sometimes he’ll ask questions or make comments, just like he would if it was a movie. You’ll have to pause to answer them or respond, and there’s a chance he might use the distraction to start a conversation with you. If you’re really determined to keep on reading, he’ll sigh and roll his eyes as he lays his head back on your chest. There have been a few times where he’s fallen asleep, but he tells you it was purely out of boredom. Not because he was actually relaxed or something

Even if you’re reading by yourself, he stills spends a good chunk of time trying to get you to pay attention to him instead. Whether that’s just to talk to you or to get into your pants. He’ll walk around the cave, blasting his music and smoking a joint. When you give him a small glare for the loudness of the music, he’ll return his own bright smile. He’ll flop onto your bed in your nest, shaking the mattress. He’ll poke you and attempt to tickle you, before crawling up to kiss your cheek and neck. Then, before you can swat him away, he’ll flip to lay on his back and stare at you like a playful tomcat

If you tell him to stop, he’ll whine. “It’s not my fault!” He’ll sit up and prop his head up by his elbow. “C’mon, we’re already laying in bed. Why don’t we do something a little bit more...stimulating?” He’ll say with a suggestive lift of his eyebrows. He was using ‘big words’ on purpose, since he was convinced that since you like books that you must think those were sexy or something. You’ll roll your eyes, but he’s not nearly as willing to lay down and relax if you’re the only one hearing the story. He’ll rip the book right out of your hand, ignore your cry of “Hey!”, and will plant his lips on yours. There, that’s much more like it.

He genuinely doesn’t understand your interest in them, but he’ll support it anyways. He’ll knick books from bookstores for you and give them to you as gifts. He smiles whenever you thank him/like whatever he chose, and then tap his cheek for a ‘thank you’ kiss

Marko

Marko doesn’t read that much, but he’s not nearly as bad as Paul. He reads a few short novels here or there, but he was ecstatic when comics became a thing in 1933. He was quick to ditch novels in favor of whatever publication company had come up with that month. By the eighties, he has a collection that any comic book junkie would kill for, and even own a few ‘rare’ copies. He doesn’t let Paul, or either of the others, near them and god forbid the inclemate weather coming inside the cave ruins them

Because of his preference of comic books, neither of you can really read to eachother. Instead, you two will lay on the bed inside your nest, each with your own individual comic to page through. Marko chews on his thumb the entire time that he reads, and the two of you will pause to make comments about whatever you’re reading. Most of your reading material are comics that he’s lent you, and he only lets you touch them because he loves you. He swears that you’re the only one allowed to look through them, but he doesn’t go far enough as letting you take them with you

Due to his preference, he prefers new over old. He wholly believes that comic books have gotten better over time. With everything from the art style, the characters, and just the different writers that have come up over the years. He still reminisces about the golden and silver age, but modern is where it’s at! Of course, the bronze age only just ended in 1984

His favorite comic book series is Watchmen by Alan Moore. He watched the superhero genre grow and develop, so he loved when the writers decided to point out how flawed some of the caped crusaders could be. While also creating some pretty awesome ones of their own. He understands that they’re all caricatures of what’s wrong in society/people, and he lives for the symbolism. The characters, the plot, the dialogue? Marko loved everything about it, especially the ending. The giant squid monster? Epic. Marko geeked when it was revealed who the real villain was, and he wouldn’t stop ranting about it for hours

He’s really upset that the Frog brothers just happen to run the best comic book store on the boardwalk, and he has to be dragged away from the store each night. He still remembers when their parents ran it instead, and he’s been pissed about the “new management” ever since the kids were old enough to sweep floors and run the cash register. Marko may or may not be the reason they were tipped off about vampires, but he swears that it was an accident. He also swore that it wasn’t like they had any proof, so they didn’t need to kill the teens immediately (he just didn’t want the store to get shut down)

If you ever want to get him to read a regular novel, you’re gonna have to read it to him. He’ll take a page out of Pauls book and lay his head on your chest as you read, closing his eyes as he listens to your voice. He’ll actually keep his hands to himself, and will focus on just holding you tightly to him instead. He treasures these moments, especially because he just gets to listen to you for over an hour. When you decide to stop for the night, Marko will whine and beg you to keep going. You’ll giggle and promise to pick it up tomorrow, and he’ll sigh. He can be won over with kisses, and the two of you can have some regular cuddle time instead

[punksarahreese]

Birth | Bloodletting

Nosdecember day 21 | @neworleansspecial

Occult!AU; a look into Ava’s rebirth into vampirism

CW: Pet/master dynamics, abuse mention, murder, blood/scars, gore

***

“Will you ever stop fussing over them?” Ava’s voice held no annoyance, instead she was just watching Sarah with soft eyes. The human had been tracing the scars on her shoulders for minutes, something she had developed a habit of since getting closer with the vampire. It had been six months since they met, long since Sarah became a frequent, almost daily visitor of the big house in the forest. Estia was attached to her, excited to learn about life growing up as a human, and Ava herself had become quite fond of the woman too.

She wasn’t sure how she grew to trust the human so quickly. Maybe it was because Estia had no qualms about her, Ava trusting her daughter’s insight more than anyone’s; she had been with her for almost 40 years by then of course. Maybe it was because April and the wolves loved her, the promise that she had made respectable friends within the forest so she couldn’t be a threat. Ava supposed it could have been Sarah herself. Her behaviour, the way she instantly wanted to nurture and help anyone who needed it. A doctor through and through, Ava could tell, she just wanted to make people feel better. She had told Ava about her past, as if she thought opening up about her own trauma would make the vampire trust her more. Maybe it did, but she was still worried about Sarah learning her truth.

“They’re like little stories,” the human answered like she always did, “They tell me what you can’t, like how this one was inflicted by a dull blade; probably an old knife.”

“Smart girl,” Ava hummed, leaning into her touch as her fingers danced across her collarbone. She hadn’t felt this warm in almost a century, the heat of her body long since sapped by immortality. She hadn’t had much physical contact since becoming a vampire, definitely not by anyone as alive as Sarah. She had been surprised that the scent of her blood wasn’t always at the forefront of her mind, like so many elders had told her it would be when around a human. Instead, Ava was distracted by the gentleness of her touch, the warmth transferring to her own icy skin, and the care she took to be as delicate as possible. No one had been this attentive or caring in decades; Ava wasn’t sure how to react.

They were in Ava’s study, which was more of a library than anything. The walls were bookcases upon bookcases, covered in novels and nonfiction in every language imaginable. Sarah had been so excited when she realized Ava had a whole section dedicated to medical books, which she had told Sarah she could read at any time. She had been reading that day, curled up on the couch near the fireplace with Ava by her side. She only ever lit the hearth when Sarah was there, since neither her nor Estia needed the heat in their cold home. She didn’t mind it though, especially since it meant Sarah would stay for a large chunk of the day if the study was warm. It was a quiet, comforting escape from her cottage with Natalie and Autumn always there and April or the wolves asking to stop by. She loved her friends, she did, but sometimes she needed quiet time and Ava understood that the most.

Like so many times before, Sarah had gotten distracted when Ava passed her another book, catching her scarred hand before she could pull away. She was so fascinated by the vampire’s history, though she still seemed apprehensive to speak about it, and she wanted to know everything. She had been a psychiatry resident before she had to quit her job after her mother’s murder, so Sarah knew that Ava was hiding something and it was eating her away inside. She wanted to help, wanted the other woman to feel safe enough to trust someone; to trust her.

Ava didn’t protest when Sarah focused on her scars, she knew she meant no harm. Sarah was curious, that’s all, and Ava’s scars were a part of her eternal body. She had long since made peace with most of them and she certainly wouldn't complain about the attention. She trusted the human, she really did, but she wasn’t too sure if she trusted herself.

“Ava?”

Another hum was her only reply, though she did smile at Sarah when she went to brush a loose curl off her shoulder. She didn’t miss the way the vampire immediately stiffened when her fingers brushed her carotid however, and she couldn’t hide her own flinch at that. Still, when Ava didn’t make a move to pull away, Sarah let her hand gently rest against the left side of her neck, warm palm resting against the biggest scar there.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?”

“I feel like that’s a question I should be asking you,” Ava mumbled and the other woman knew she was deflecting. Sarah had long since inferred that this wound was how she died, since the vampire seemed void of any actual turning mark, but she never was able to get the answers from her. She didn’t want to push Ava if she wasn’t comfortable but she knew keeping it hidden for a hundred years wasn’t helping anyone.

“Why do you wish to know so badly?” Ava’s own hand came up to rest affectionately on the human’s cheek, “You’re a bit of a pain, you know that?”

“So you’ve told me,” Sarah smiled at her, knowing she was trying to distract her with the touch, “You would feel better if you talked about it.”

“I don’t… you shouldn’t have to hear the horrors of it all, Sarah. It’s something no one should ever have to endure, I wish to protect you from even the thought of it.”

“Ava… Please?”

“I-” the blonde sighed, “I’ve never talked about it, not out loud.”

“Not even with Estia?”

“Gods no, she may be older than you mentally but to me she is still a baby, my baby. She had her own traumatic turning, the last thing she needs is to know how much I endured before even having the relief of finally meeting death.”

“Ava, I’m sorry… You don’t-”

She shook her head, thinking for a moment before answering, “You asked and I do suppose it’s time I answer your questions. You deserve to know, though I will warn you it’s quite gruesome. I did not… have a pleasant end.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Sarah said apologetically, “Only if you trust me and feel comfortable, I would like to know.”

“Sarah, darling, I trust you more than anyone.”

***

Ava had been a nurse in a hospital in the poorest area of her hometown. She hadn’t wanted to become a nurse, rather she wanted to be a doctor, but female doctors just weren’t commonplace in the 1920’s. She spent the majority of her twenties working with women and children in poorhouses, coming to the aid of those who were harmed in war or domestic disputes. She was apart of a underground feminist movement in Cape Town as well, something her parents had long since stopped arguing with Ava about but hated all the same. She was reckless, they said, this would only hurt her reputation. How was she going to meet a respectable man to marry if she wouldn’t stop the suffragette nonsense? Little did they know, Ava had no interest in getting married, especially not to a man.

She was walking back from dropping her little sister off at some birthday party, Anikka had been so excited to give her friend a new teddy bear that Ava had helped her sew some little clothes for. The party would run for a few hours, so the woman figured she could kill some time by shopping for groceries and perhaps pick up a couple books to help Anikka learn to read.

It wasn’t even dark out, certainly not the time for a middle class, white woman to be too worried about walking around main street, though Ava realized she probably should have been more attentive. She was just passing between two stores, taking a familiar shortcut through an alleyway to avoid a group of soldiers doing a photo-op near a statue of the King. She didn't even have time to react when a rough hand grabbed her by the wrist, couldn’t bring herself to scream before another ice cold palm clapped over her mouth. The one thing she remembered before she blacked out was feeling the seam of her new coat ripping and the sharp pain of something jabbing into her shoulder.

When Ava woke up she was more than disoriented. The nurse in her said she must have hit her head at some point, as her eyes couldn’t comfortably adjust to the dim lighting and her mind was struggling to catch up. The room she was in was cold, empty except for a small cot pushed up against the wall and a bucket across the room that she didn't want to know the intended purpose of. She tried to get out, scrabbling at the rusty door hinges and tugging on the locked handle until her fingers bled. She cried, even though she hated herself for it, all she could do was cry and beg hoping her captors would hear her and have mercy.

Ava didn’t know how long she had been in that cold, damp room before someone showed up. She had cried herself to sleep at one point, curled up beside the door because the cot seemed too far away. She woke up when the door opened, hitting her in the back harshly. A voice chastised her for being in the way, demanding she stand and follow him. Ava tried to resist but was yanked to her feet, stumbling because she was beyond dehydrated and her head was spinning. She asked this man who he was, where he was taking her, and what day it was. She only got silence in reply, a harsh tug of her wrist almost landing her face first on the cold marble floor. That was when Ava realized she was barefoot, her coat and shoes were gone and her stockings had been ripped from the knees down. She was freezing, hands still bleeding from trying to escape, and she just wanted to go back to sleep. She wanted this to end before it got worse, she wasn’t sure what would happen to her but Ava assumed it wouldn’t be good.

Before long she was shoved into another room, the door slamming shut behind her. Ava assumed she was alone again, deciding to explore her new location since it was very different from her previous one. The room was decorated lavishly, way more modern than her current apartment that her father had bought her since she still refused to marry. A large piano was situated in the one corner of the room, overlooking a large curtained window that appeared to lead to a balcony. She ran an injured hand over the expensive leather of a comfortable looking couch, wondering who with all this money wanted anything to do with her. Sure Ava’s parents had money but she hardly believed they would pay any large sum for her ransom. Besides, these people appeared to have more money than her family ever would, so they probably didn’t need any ransom from her.

“Oh, you’ve finally calmed down; how lovely.”

Ava jumped at the deep tone, accented in a way that told her the man wasn’t from South Africa. English, she first assumed, and she turned to come face to face with a tall man who looked her father’s age. He was sitting in a chair near a fireplace, though it was not lit, and he had turned to look at Ava with amusement. What concerned her the most was his eyes, that tracked her anxious movements in a cat-like way. They were red, deeper in colour than the wounds of any injured person she had even seen. She wanted to scream, to run, but she feared for her life if she did.

“Now now, do not look so frightened, pet.” He stood, walking over to Ava even as she flinched away. A rough hand caught her face, squishing her cheeks as he gave her a once over with an unreadable expression. Ava had begun to cry silently, tears tracking down her already makeup-stained face and he wiped them away in distaste.

“So dramatic,” he crooned, “I hope you will learn to behave and keep yourself presentable in the future. Crying is unbecoming of a woman, especially one as pretty as you.”

“W-what… what do y-you want from me?”

“Oh, she speaks!” he laughed to himself, “What are you on about, pet?”

“I’m not you pet,” Ava spat in a sudden flare of rage, appalled at his behaviour towards her, “Is it money? Do you not have enough as it is? My family will not pay ransom for me, I hope you know.”

“Oh no, dear, you’ve got it all wrong,” Ava tried to fight off the hand that still had a hold of her but he only moved his hand down to wrap around her throat. He ignored the way her hands scrambled to tear his hand away, her nails not even making dents in his skin. The man grinned at her and if she had been able to Ava thought she would have screamed, where his incisors should have been were long, sharp teeth that could only be described as fangs.

“You, my pet, are mine. For eternity.”

***

“Is that when he…” Sarah was close to tears, holding tightly onto Ava’s hand. She saw the way her friend was shaking, whether it be out of fear of reliving her memories or anger at what had happened decades before. This was hard for her, Sarah felt horrible for even asking Ava to tell her what occurred.

“Gods no. Sarah, he kept me for over a year before his fangs ever broke skin.”

“What?”

“I was a walking blood bank for them…” she gestured to her countless scars inflicted by sharp objects, “They never bit me deep enough, not for the longest time. He said he would be the one to do it when the time came. They would cut me and collect my blood, sometimes he would… let them lick it off me instead.”

Anger flared in Sarah’s stomach at that, seeing how uncomfortable the memory made her. All she could do was stare at Ava, unsure of what to say. She just wanted to hug her in that moment, to hold her and promise no one would ever touch her again, but she didn’t want to overstep.

“It wasn’t all bad… they kept me well fed at least. I had to be of course, a malnourished person doesn’t produce good blood. My master,” she spat the title out like it burned, “He gave me everything a girl would have wanted back then. I had all the clothes and makeup and books I could want.”

“But you weren’t happy.”

“Of course not, I hated it there. I would pray for the day they would accidentally cut too deep or one of the fledglings would lose control and rip my throat out before he could stop them.”

“I’m sorry, Ava…” Sarah blinked away tears at the thought of everything she had had to endure, “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

“I got my wish, though,” Ava laughed bitterly as she traced the largest scar, “That day… I thought it was the end.”

“What… happened?”

A fledgling had a knife, she was supposed to be collecting from me that day,” she answered, letting Sarah tug her own hand away from her neck. She gave the human a sad smile when she held her hand tightly, grateful for her comfort.

“She hit your carotid?”

Ava nodded, hiding a flinch at the memory, “I barely recall what happened except for the searing pain. There was so much blood, she was having trouble holding back and I could tell. I blacked out in seconds but the last thing I remember was collapsing into her arms and… I wish it had been the end. The next couple weeks were Hell compared to what had happened before.”

Sarah couldn’t help but ask, “Why did they wait until the last moment to turn you?”

“I was their toy… their pet, Sarah. They had me exactly where they wanted me for a year. They gave me just enough of their venom to keep me loyal and tied down, I couldn’t fight because my body wouldn’t let me. If they turned me I would have been more powerful and they couldn’t keep me a useful prisoner anymore.”

“Then why bother turning you? If you were already bleeding out and wouldn’t be what they wanted after?”

“He… said he couldn’t live without me. He wanted me to be his wife, I refused countless times. He was my master so I couldn’t leave but I refused to ever be his submissive in my afterlife. He tried, for decades this man tried to win my favour and still treated me like I was his. I would never accept his advances though, which angered him. He may have taken my life and my blood but there was no way in Hell that man was taking my body too.”

This was taking a big toll on Ava, though she couldn’t physically cry Sarah could see in her eyes that she wanted to. The human apologized softly, opening her arms without saying anything else. Ava hesitated but allowed herself to melt into the comfort, feeling safer than she ever thought she would again. She wasn’t sure why Sarah made her feel so safe, especially since Ava herself was naturally supposed to be a threat to her. Still, the way the woman held her close and brushed her hair gently behind her ear made Ava feel seen and cared for for the first time since 1920.

“He’ll never hurt you again, Ava.”

Ava couldn’t help the tiny smile that fought its way onto her face, “He can’t. I killed that bastard the second I got the chance.”

[vitosscaletta]

personality + relationships for julia & background + relationships for lucia 😌

rips you off and makes banners <3

PERSONALITY

What’s their alignment?

chaotic good/neutral. more neutral/lawful later on

Which one of the 16 Personality Types do they fit into?

Not looking at it in-depth but entj 😳

What are their hobbies and interests? Do they have any particular “favorites” (food, books, and so on)?

Writing obviously... Mostly her little newspaper articles though, she’s not creative enough to write fiction :/ Other than that she likes to read, mostly the standard literature of the time (she’s a big fan of Ernest Hemingway.. 😳) or some of her mom’s old stuff and a few other columnists she looks up to :) Also medical books her dad has in their living room. She reads those too. She also picked up sewing at some point in the late 20′s/early30′s but she’s kinda. whatever about it. Mostly did it when she couldn’t afford new clothes and tried to change the silhouette of her old stuff

What are they bad at?

Driving 😔 she’s not... bad... she’ll just yell at anyone for no reason and break speed limit all the time 

Do they have any vices/addictions/mental illnesses?

No lol but she smokes... sometimes 😒

What are their goals and motivations?

God she’s ambitious as hell and it has mostly to do with her job... she wants to be a famous journalist or something but most of all to be taken seriously? Insert that saying about having to work twice as hard as a man to get half as much respect. Besides that, she also believes whatever she puts out into the world could somehow change things for the better :) It’s a little naive so she’d never tell people but. 

What are their manners like? Any habits?

Her manners are.. good? But she’s chatty and won’t shut up and says whatever is on her mind so

RELATIONSHIPS

Do they have any friends? Would they consider anyone to be their best friend?

She’s friends with almost everyone at Salieri’s (except Frank ig just because I couldn’t see them interacting much.. and Vinny..) and mostly just hangs out with them, she doesn’t really interact with other people anymore. Friend group that consists almost exclusively of italians <3 Her best friends are Olive and Sarah, maybe also Carlo since he always hangs around the bar too while the others are doing idk mafia things and plays cards with them :/ She’s friends with the other guys too though. Including Ralphie to some degree, she feels sorry that everyone makes fun of him... then laughs at whatever mean shit the others say about him and feels bad about it 😔

What’s their love life like? (See also: ship question meme.) Do they have any kids?

Oh you know 🙄 has a stupid little crush on Sam because she likes evil men i guess... idk what to say because there’s. A lot. They hold hands on her dads couch, get together like a year later because hes a freak etc. You know how it ends in canon but in the sexy superior au they get married in 1939/1940 something but nothing changes bc she was living in his crappy little italy apartment anyway :) also no kids god.. 

Who do they look up to? Who do they trust?

Hmmm mostly her parents. Yes her dad is a crooked doctor but she wants to be like that too... He ends up in prison in the canon timeline though :c  Also her late mother... she was an author (not a well-known one lmao) who died in the late 1910s :/  She trusts uhhh.. her dad and her friends I suppose.. her close friends. 

Who do they hate? Do they have any enemies?

She dislikes/hates a lot of random people because she’s petty but has no real enemies? Maybe Morello & his gang but just because everyone else does.. She has the exact same opinion on him as Salieri so whenever he talks shit she’s like “haha YEAH! >:(”... then he goes crazy in the end :/

Do they have any pets?

Yes, a cat :) his name is Louie

Are they good with kids? Animals?

With kids... yeah, to some degree? She’s the cool aunt who teaches kids swear words like “oh nuts” and tells them (child-friendly versions of) stories about her mafia friends but she’s not really someone who could take care of a child all day 🙄 Animals... yeah? She’s good with cats but probably nothing else

BACKGROUND

Where were they born? What was their childhood like?

She was born in Parlermo in the 1920s but her family moved to america when she was very young so she has no memory of her old home :/ They weren’t very well off in sicily and that didn’t change when they moved, her parents worked shitty jobs with low pay so they didn’t have much & lived in some ugly little apartment in little italy with their three kids... Lucia had to take care of her brothers most of the time because her parents both worked.. and was usually the one who had to beat the other kids’ asses when they got into trouble with any of them 😒 She spent most of the free time she had studying and doing things for school so she could get a proper job and wouldn’t end up like her parents or whatever

What’s their family like?

Her parents like I said are both from Sicily.. her dad is a mechanic and mostly worked in some little garage. The earning wasn’t that bad for the time but he made a few debts to the bank (and other people trying to pay those off) in the 1930s so you know :/ Her mom worked part-time in some random store lol.. they loved her obviously but they were very strict and had a billion expectations while also not really being around enough. They do support her trying to do well in school, mayyyyybe also going to college and all that but still expect her to get married instead of pursuing a career in the end so she can become a proper housewife 😒  She also has two younger brothers, Antonio and Frank.. they’re closer and like i said... Lucia is the cooler older sister who beats up the other kids who mess with them. They don’t have much lore but.. they exist..

What factions or organizations are they a part of? What ranks and titles do they hold?

None... idk.... empire bay library where she works in the late 40′s/early 50s :) she initially just works there as a librarian but becomes an archivist in 1950 something.

How do they fit into their “story”?

Just like Mia, she’s Vito & Joe’s friend from childhood.. dumb teenage antics that end after high school and they grow apart while Vito is in the army and Joe does... crime things. She’s just doing her own thing until the like 2 months where Vito isnt in prison.. where she has to drive his ass home after he & Joe robbed that one jewelry store :^) also they all meet up again in 1951, life is good for 3 months

Where do they currently live? What’s their place like?

Some crappy little apartment complex in Westside except her apartment looks nice 😌 it’s nothing fancy but it’s cozy and nice, lots of books lying around (there’s a system to it according to her), some old furniture mixed with new mid-century style ones. She has a little sunburst clock hanging there.

How do they eventually die?

Uhhh probably just of old age... in a swamp..

RELATIONSHIPS

Do they have any friends? Would they consider anyone to be their best friend?

Her childhood friend group that I mentioned, consisting of Vito, Joe and Mia :) They all lived in the same crappy neighborhood and went to school together.. Apparently Joe was the neighborhood bully whch is funny as hell to me but also. Lucia got into his “gang” when he picked on her little brother and she threatened to beat his ass.. meanwhile Vito actually had to do that to get into their group lmao. They met Mia like two years later in church and all became friends when Lucia helped her out in school 😳 She’d definitely consider Mia her best friend, they still hung out after their little friend group fell apart :(

She’s also friends with Giuliana and by association Henry (not really she just hears about him from like everyone)

What’s their friend group like? What role do they play in it?

godd obviously she wasn’t the one who started shit but she gladly went along with whatever stupid bullshit the others were doing. She’s supposed to be the responsible smart one or something but she’s not... she’s the one who causes more trouble to help the others somehow 😌 Shoplifting antics

She started being responsible after graduating high school when her parents told her to do something with her life so she’s like... “time to stop hanging out with criminals and focus on college...”. she really misses it though :(

What’s their love life like? (See also: ship question meme.) Do they have any kids?

Ahem.... she and Vito.... Childhood friends to lovers 😌 they were just friends in high school & she thought she’d never see him again after he got arrested but she does in 1945. Then he gets arrested again :)) Uhh she probably briefly dated a few people during that time but nothing ever came out of it. They get together in 1951 though but i cant talk about my mafia ships here or I’ll combust. They also probably have kids idk yet.. they look like kids people

Who do they look up to? Who do they trust?

She trusts..... her friends. and her brothers. Doesn’t really look up to her parents though because that’s exactly what she doesn’t want to be :(

Who do they hate? Do they have any enemies?

She doesn’t have any enemies she just hates some random people by association (the irish gang, some random mafia men she doesnt know)

Do they have any pets?

Two cats. Ocs by me owning cats cinematic universe

Are they good with kids? Animals?

Yes, she’s good with both :)

[messedupessy]

🎃HAPPY HALLOWEEN  (͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)🎃

Or well happy belated Halloween that is, but hey it’s just 2 days late and I think it was seriously very worth it because look at my pirate boys who are not that very piratey in this yeah :>c

Because gods I have been wanting to draw them in 1920 era mobster etc outfits for literal months thanks to seeing allot of Underswap/Mobswap art on my dash and other take on au bro’s but set in 1920, and I just srsly had to join in for Halloween and I am so proud how this turned out because this took way longer than I had planned gknegekjjgej

Mostly thanks to a certain Boney boy whose dress took literal frikking ages! I also spent so much time to research 1920 fashion so to get as much things right as I could and I literally fused a bunch of dresses together for him as I couldn’t decide on just one xD But fudge am I proud how it turned out, like srsly look at that skirt so proud how it turned out with the colours and everything, and I had lots of fun mixing various patterns for his bandana, and I did not draw those peacock feathers as I gave up and instead just used my ref pics I had pft! I feel like Boney should in reality wear a bunch of rings and more stuff but I just did not have the time or energy for it, his dress took up all that time instead! Really happy with how he turned out tho bless. And Pass sheit I wish I had been able to put as much time on him as I did Boney, but it’s hard when he isn’t wearing that much clothing because he hates shirts pft, very proud of hiis pants tho like srsly, and the background is ok could prolly done it better but it works and I am happy and so done grnjenngke

I also had to try to make a more vintage looking version of it too because why not, which turned out really good as well! But yeah overall I am very happy and oh so proud on how this turned out gkjengkjje UwU ❤

Anyway, hope u guys had a great Halloween ye!❤