#Little thumbling

[adarkrainbow]

I was reading this article about French paintings of fairytales, and I decided to share some of them with you! Because while France has a long and rich history of fairytale illustrations (the peak of the iceberg being Gustave Doré's illustrations of Perrault's fairytales), it also has several famous fairytale paintings. Some of these include...

Jean-Louis Demarne's "Little Thumbling" (Petit Poucet ; Hop o' my thumb)

And Fleury François Richard's Little Red Riding Hood:

But we also have an entire series of fairytale paintings created by a same artist, Jean-Antoine Laurent. Unfortunately a lot of these fairytale paintings were lost (we know he did a "Fairy Urgèle" and a "Little Red Riding Hood" lost today) but we have preserved some. Including his "Cinderella trying the glass slipper"...

... his "Cinderella" (sometimes called "Cinderella with the cat" to differentiate it from the painting above)...

... and his "Donkey skin".

[maimoncat]

Ma da dove viene la rima dell'orco?

"Ucci, ucci,

Sento odor di cristianucci!"

Potrebbe sembrare scontato chiederselo, abbiamo sentito tutti questi versetti mostruosi dalla bocca dell'orco di Pollicino o del gigante di Jack e il fagiolo magico. Ma a pensarci bene non possono venire da queste fiabe: l'orco non ha alcuna rima nel testo originale dei Racconti di Mamma Oca, di Charles Perrault, e nelle versioni inglesi, il gigante di Jack dice una filastrocca del tutto diversa da quella italiana: "Fee-fi-fo-fum/ I smell the bones of an englishman!". Già le parole iniziali non corrispondono per nulla nei suoni, ma piuttosto che alla fede ci si riferisce alla nazionalità (se volete saperne di più riguardo alla storia di quella filastrocca, potete leggervi questo post di @adarkrainbow). Tralaltro, l'uso di "cristiano" come sinonimo di "umano" è tipico di modi di dire ed espressioni italiane, quindi se anche fosse stato un adattamento dall'inglese, il traduttore dovrà aver saputo il fatto suo sul linguaggio fiabesco italiano.

E quindi? Da dov'è che sono spuntati fuori questi versetti? Io un'idea ce l'avrei, ma non so bene come siano arrivati alle altre fiabe, come abbiano raggiunto questa fama.

Fatto sta, che nel 1885 il famoso studioso di fiabe siciliano Giuseppe Pitrè pubblica la raccolta novelle popolari toscane, tra le quali spicca per noi la n. XXIV, Il diavolo fra i frati, raccontata da Rosina Casini a Fabbriche. Per chi conoscesse le fiabe dei Grimm, questa è una versione del Diavolo dai tre capelli d'oro: un re si ammala, il suo servo fedele va alla ricerca della cura, una penna di una bestia favolosa, e sul suo cammino incontra tanti disgraziati che gli chiedono penne e consigli; questi li riesce a prendere la moglie della bestia, che, nascosto il servo dalla fame del marito, gli strappa le penne per "svegliarlo e chiederli cosa significhino i suoi sogni". Ora, la bestia, entrata a casa grida:

"Mucci mucci, /Oh che puzzo di cristianucci!/ O ce n’è, o ce n’è stati,/ O ce n’è de’ rimpiattati."

ed eccola qua, la rima orchesca! Perché anche se in altre fiabe la "bestia piumata" è qualcosa come un grifone, in questa storia ha proprio il comportamento da orco. Lo pensava anche Calvino quando inserì la novella tra le sue Fiabe Italiane cambiò il titolo in L'orco con le penne, mantenendo sempre la filastrocca:

"Mucci mucci, / Qui c'è puzza di cristianucci / O ce n'è, o ce n'è stati / O ce n'è di rimpiattati."

Anche se non tutti la conoscono, la sua raccolta ebbe una grande influenza nella conoscenza degli italiani del loro patrimonio fiabesco. La Prezzemolina di Imbriani è abbastanza conosciuta, e dalla stessa raccolta è anche tratta la fiaba che ispirò la miniserie televisiva Fantaghirò. Probabilmente è da questa raccolta di Calvino che la filastrocca è entrata nell'immaginario fiabesco generale degli orchi.

In realtà ci sono anche altri aspetti che il Pollicino che conosciamo noi possa esser stato influenzato da Calvino. Una delle prime traduzioni di Perrault, da parte di Collodi, rende il nome Petit-Poucet come Puccettino. Mentre le fiabe italiane hanno sia un Pulcino (nell'omonima fiaba pugliese, uguale per trama a quella francese) e un Pollicino (citato solo come sposo nelle rime di Gallo Cristallo).

Però per accertarsi di queste cose bisognerebbe controllarne altre edizioni di queste fiabe. Se qualcuno riesce a scovarne, ce lo faccia pure sapere!

Provo a metter 'sta roba anche in inglese, magari interessa a qualcuno:

You know that rhyme the giants in english fairy tales say? "Fee-fi-fo-fum/I smell the bones of an englishman!" Well, we have a similar one in italy: "Ucci, ucci/ sento odor di cristianucci!" "Ucci, ucci/ I smell little christians" (for the longest time "cristiano" was used as a synonym to human. It still is by some people). It gets mostly used in Perrault's Little Thumbling by the ogre or in Jack and the beanstalk by the giant. But it doesn't come from these stories. Perrault didn't use any rhymes and the verses from Jack are way too different.

So where did this come from? I might have an idea, but I'm not entirely certain how it reached national knowledge.

Point is, in 1885 the great sicilian folk tale scholar Giuseppe Pitrè published a collection of tuscan folk tales, novelle popolari toscane. Of these, n. XXIV, Il diavolo fra i frati (the devil among friars), told by Rosina Casini from Fabbriche, sticks out to us. For those of you familiar with the Grimms' tales, this is a version of the Devil with the three golden hairs: a king gets sick, his faithful servant sets out to find the cure, a feather from a magic beast, and on his way he finds many unfortunate people, asking for magic feathers and solutions as well. These are all coaxed out from the feathered beast by his helpful wife, who wakes him at night by pulling his feathers and telling him of "the weird dreams she just had!". Now, when this beast frist comes home, it says this:

"Mucci mucci, /Oh che puzzo di cristianucci!/ O ce n’è, o ce n’è stati,/ O ce n’è de’ rimpiattati." ("Mucci, mucci/ oh what stink of little christians!/ There either are, or there have been,/ or there are hidden away.")

There it is, our ogrish rhyme! Because even if this "feathered beast" is in some versions of the story a griffin, it has the same behavior of an ogre. Which is why, when Italo Calvino put this tale among his Italian folk tales, he changed the title to the feathered ogre, while keeping tge verses:

"Mucci mucci, / Qui c'è puzza di cristianucci / O ce n'è, o ce n'è stati / O ce n'è di rimpiattati."

While not everyone knows this collection, it had a big influence in italians being more in-touch with their body of fairy tales. Imbriani's Prezzemolina is fairly well known now, and the same collection also contains the fairy tale that inspired the "Cave of the golden rose" miniseries, Fantaghirò. It's probably Calvino's collection that brought a regional expression to a broader audience.

Calvino might have influenced in other ways the italian reception of little Thumbling as well: one of the first translations of this tale, by Carlo Collodi, keeps the sound of the original name (Petit Poucet) as Puccettino. The now well-known form Pollicino can be found in Calvino as a rhyming name in Crystal Rooster and in a similar form in an apulian version of Perrault's story (Pulcino, Chick).

Though, to be sure we'd need to check more editions

[cmonbartender]

Little Tom (1922) - Otakar Štáfl

[lexa-griffins]

I love how we went full pentagram with incubus Clarke from horny to happy ending 😌 Their menace demon baby reminds me of farm Madi

See and you guys say im an angst demon when o always give you guys horny moments and happy endings 😌

The demon baby is farm Madi if you took how her lovable demeanor, grabbed Clarke's grumpiness, Lexa's no feelings attitude and then put it in a little guman with baby horns who will only smile at their moms 😌

[tmt-sketch-a-day]

Sketch a Day 2465- A Thimble- 9/13/22    

Could be used as a hat

[an-au-blog]

Buggy accidentally detaching body parts around Shanks to be closer to him tough without him even noticing he’s doing it.

Imagining Teen Shanks getting up at night and untangling himself from his friends octopus wrap „Lemme go… I gotta piss.“ „Mnnng“. Making his way towards the bathroom and relieving himself groggily, thumbling towards the old washbasin to clean his hands off. Raises his head to look at his exhausted face in the mirror, eyes still small and full of sleep, hair mussed up on one side and the imprint of the pillow still on his face, a little cut on his face he got from his first attempt at trying to shave last week, a ghostly detached hand that clings to his shoulder, clinging harder to the fabric of his shirt as it starts to loose its grip for a second-

Shanks gets teased for waking up the entire crew with his screaming even months after that night.

Ahahaha yes! I love this concept!

Also after waking up, Buggy not wanting to get up, so Shanks is dragging his arms around, whether wrapped around him or hanging from him. It becomes a normal thing for the crew but every so often, whenever they get invaded or someone new comes on the ship it scares the shit out of them. Just some kid with a pair of dismantled limbs around his torso.

I can also see Buggy acting mad at Shanks (when he's not actually that angry) and trying to storm off but only hid upper half moves and his feet just stay there, betraying him.

This, however, could potentially be bad for him in battle when he's scared and feels frozen.

Imagine,

They're fighting someone and he's there petrified. Some guy cuts him in half through the stomach. Buggy falls down and tries to crawl away because his legs don't work. Everything is in slow motion and he can't breath. He's panicking. He doesn't know what to do, even if he did it would be too late - the guy who cut him is already swinging again. He closes his eyes and protects his face with his hands. But the blow never comes.

When he opens his eyes he sees Shanks has started fighting the guy who attacked him.

This often leads to conversations like

Buggy: I can fend for myself, you know!

Shanks: Well it didn't seem like it. I was just trying to help why are you mad at me?

Buggy: It's not like they could kill me by chopping me, remember? Plus what do you care?

Shanks: Why do I care for my best friend?

Buggy never thinking they were regular friends, not to mention best friends: ... wtf is wrong with you *storming off because he doesn't know how to genuine affection*

(his feet are still in the room and the arm Shanks was holding is also)

[mlmxreader]

Tell Me One Thing | Holland March x gn!reader

anonymous asked: hello hello i hope you’re doing as well as you can :) i was wondering if i could request some holland march x gn!reader with the prompts: “hey, hey, look at me c’mon” and “for what it’s worth, i’m proud of you”. where basically holland’s on a case and someone recognises him as the reader’s boyfriend but they have some very strong opinions about them being together and say kinda nasty things. he gets home before the reader and the latter finds him curled in upon himself like overthinking and stuff and comforts him. thank you! :)

summary: March has a habit of letting certain things get under his skin a bit too much, but thankfully, his partner comforts him when he needs it.

tws: swearing, alcohol consumption, smoking, mentions of injury, mentions of alcoholism

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

It seemed like a normal enough day.

Healy was chatting to people in the busy street while Holland waited by the car and smoked; they were just looking for some old lady's lost dog, but money was money, and private investigators like Healy and March couldn't afford to turn down a job.

Holland did think, though, that he might be able to escape to the nearest payphone and call you; Holly was at school - hopefully - by now, which meant that the chances were, you were at home for a little while before your shift started.

He debated it, and when he saw that Healy was still chatting, he made his mind up; his bandaged fingers thumbled with the numbers, but he got there in the end and lit another cigarette.

But as it was ringing, someone knocked on the booth. Figuring that they probably just wanted to use it, he opened the door, and clenched his jaw.

"Can't you fucking see it's in use?"

The stranger looked him up and down for a moment. "Aren't you dating the person that used to live on Foxtrot Street?"

Holland quirked a brow. "Y/N?"

"Yeah," they nodded. "You're the new boyfriend, right?"

Holland shrugged as he scoffed. "The fuck do you wanna know for? Go on, get lost, pal."

The stranger didn't budge, folding their arms across their chest. "Y'know, I think it's absolutely sickening. A nice person like that, with scum like you - it's a surprise they haven't crawled into the bottom of a bottle, as well."

He rolled his eyes, attempting to close the door on them, but they put their hand on the frame. "Just fucking let me make a call."

"Please," they huffed. "Leave them alone. They deserve better than some P.I who drinks too much to even care about his own kid. You're gonna fuck them over, just like you fuck everybody else over. Leave them alone."

They only backed off once Healy approached, and although he wanted to talk about it, Holland couldn't find the energy to do so; he got in the car, hardly spoke but swigged from his flask like there was no tomorrow.

When Healy dropped him off, Holland had only one thing in mind: bed.

He flopped down onto the soft mattress, face buried against the pillows as he closed his eyes; maybe they were right. They did have a point, but he had been working on his drinking. But he was also useless - he fell off of several balconies that day, all on the ground floor at least unlike last time.

Maybe he would fuck you over. He didn't want to, but maybe he would. He spent what felt like eternity laid there, but eventually moved onto his side, cuddling into a pillow as he brought his knees to his chest, staring out at nothing.

He hoped Holly wouldn't be home any time soon, she didn't need to see her father worrying so badly about something that a stranger had said.

But Holly didn't come home first.

Holland knew it wasn't her when he heard the door lock from the inside, a muttering voice listing out all the chores to do throughout the house; familiar footprints slowly approaching along with the scent of his cologne, like the wearer had stolen one of his shirts.

He usually smiled, but not today. He just sighed and cuddled into the pillow even more.

"Hey, baby," you hummed, not thinking much at first as you shrugged your jacket off and hung it up on the corner of the wardrobe. Sweat trickling down your back and clinging to your forehead. "How was your day?"

Holland grumbled. "Why are you still here?"

You furrowed your brows as you turned around, shoving your hands into your pockets. "What do you mean?"

"I'm just gonna fuck you up," he sighed. "I fuck everything up and you… deserve better."

"Oh, Holland," you sighed, squatting down so that your eyes were on the same level as his. "Holland, Holland, Holland… you're not gonna fuck me up. I mean, you do give me really bad fright every time you go out, but that's because I know you - I know you're not exactly great with balconies."

Holland sighed.

But you wouldn't relent. "Hey, hey, look at me, c'mon… atta boy. Listen to me, baby - do you really think I'd leave?"

He shrugged. "You should."

"I'm not going to," you said softly. "No one, and I mean no one, has made me laugh as much as you can. You think I'd give all that up?"

"I make you laugh?"

"Yes," you leaned forward, gently kissing his forehead. "And that means everything to me, you know that… you wanna tell me what happened?"

"Someone approached me while we were working," he said quietly. "Said some pretty shitty things."

"And you let them get under your skin," you hummed, nodding. "Y'know, this is only like the window incident."

Usually, he smiled at the reminder.

When he had been playfully bickering with you at a party and he had thought that a window was shut, only to lean back and fall right through it, landing on a buffet table crowded by people.You laughed the entire way to the hospital, and he had never heard something so wonderful.

But he had allowed one of the doctors comments about you to get under his skin, just as he had now.

"Y'know, for what it's worth, I'm proud of you," you told him. "I really am."

Slowly, Holland dared to sit upright, spreading his legs so that you were between them, looking up at him with your head leaning on his thigh, a small smile on your lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirmed, gently pushing him back until his back hit the mattress, straddling his waist. "You gonna let go of the pillow?"

He threw it, and ignored whatever went crashing down with it as he eagerly gripped at your sides. "Better?"

"Much," you nodded. laughing loudly when he moved to pin you onto your back beneath him, your wrists in his hands as he pinned them above your head. "Don't start something that you can't finish, mind, March."

"I can finish it," he murmured. "Just… tell me one thing."

"Anything."

"Tell me you love me."

[writing-whump]

Sensory Overload part 2

@bellysoupset I love your tags, wanted to write this one right away 🙈 part 2 of this fic

Arnie was glaring at the clock. It was almost midnight. Which wasn't unusual for Hector on a work day, but for a day off? He didn't message him to warn him - he didn't in fact even have his phone with him.

Arnie paused the movie, not being able to concentrate, biting at his fingernails. He hated moments like these when Hector was missing, but maybe not, and even if he was, Arnie would be able to do nothing about it.

Looking at his phone, even Arnie's messages to Isaiah stayed unread. If he called, would he pick up? Isaiah usually picked up if it was one of them even 3 o'clock in the morning...but was it worth bothering him for a suspicion?

Fortunately the door opened in that moment, Arnie's heart jumping with relief.

"Took you long enough. A run of 4 hours, rea- Hex?"

The door felt shut, followed by a loud thumbling noise of something heavy against the floor. Arnie shot up to his feet.

Hector was sprawled in their entry hall, the light switched off. Staring at the ceiling like he could see the starts through it?

"Are you hurt?" Arnie said in confusion, crouching down by his older brother's side.

"Nope. Everything's fine. More than fine." His speech was a little slurred and he had...an almost victorious smile on his face. Then his jaw flexed and he gulped down.

Arnie raised an eyebrow at him. "What are you doing? Are you drunk?"

"Noooope. No way. Don' do drunk..."

"And why are you still on the floor?" Arnie got up to flip the light on.

Hector growled at that like an injured bear, curling around his side.

Arnie quickly shut the light off again. "Okay, now you are scaring me."

That had Hector lifting himself up on one arm, the other unconsciously held against his stomach. "Got a bit dizzy, 's all. Light show...stupid lights and dots kept moving..." He swallowed heavily like something got stuck in his throat.

"Light show, eh?" Arnie sank down to his knees beside him, offering an arm. "Come on. Let's get you in bed then."

Hector looked a bit confused, like Arnie had more than one arm to offer and he couldn't decide which was the right one, before taking it. Arnie helped him up.

Hector immediately swayed, crashing against the wall for support.

"Are you sure it's just that? Weren't you hurt? Poisoned? Any silver?"

Hector shook his head, then groaned and pressed his fingers against his eyes. "I'm fine. Just got a bit worse on the stairs."

Together, they stumbled their way to Hector's bedroom at snail pace. Hector kept swinging at random times, missing the walls and the door.

Arnie let out a big sight of relief when he got him to sit down on the bed. "You. Don't move." He steadied Hector with hands on his shoulders until the wolf could hold his position.

Despite Hector panting and blinking his eyes too quickly between shutting them down, there was an air...of something happy about him. The grumbly offended frustration from earlier was gone, and there was a constant small smile tugging at Hector's lips.

Arnie squinted at him. Hector was by all means and purposes, not a smily person. Smiles from him were rare and served specific purposes.

This one wasn't the shark smile of winning a fight or the teasing downright ridiculing cruel smile for enemies. Or the arrogant grin he wore for meetings to be reassuring. Or the tender smile reserved for special occasions for Isaiah or the proud one for Arnie.

This smile, Arnie didn't know.

"Are you gonna tell me what happened or just keep grinning like an idiot all night?" Arnie said in annoyance.

"That was a very good run," Hector said. The smile took on a teasing edge, then morphed back almost a wistful dreamlike quality.

Arnie rolled his eyes. "Just awesome. For your information, you are totally talking like a drunk." He got to the task of undoing Hector's sneakers.

Somewhere at the second shoe, Hector stiffened suddenly, hanging his head.

Arnie froze as well. "What is it?"

Hector held up a finger, tilting his head to the side. His throat bobbed and Arnie could see from his position on the floor how his stomach muscles contracted under his tight black shirt.

"Are you gonna be sick?"

Hector shrugged like he wasn't sure, way too unconcerned in Arnie's opinion. His whole frame heaved and Arnie jumped back to not get puked on.

A loud wet burp came up.

Arnie sighed. "Jesus."

Hector let his hands sink, fingers curling into the sheets. "Still feeling a bit-" he gagged, shoulders hitching, but it was empty. "Pukey."

"You don't say," Arnie said dryly. "You think laying down will help or make it worse?"

"Wanna try," Hector said, blinking at Arnie like he couldn't do it himself.

What's gotten into him? Arnie complied though, pushing Hector's chest down onto the bed, then lifted his legs one after the other.

"Uhmmm...you are...uuurp...really good little brother, you know that?" Hector had that silly big smile on his face again, looking up the ceiling all wide-eyed and happy.

"Yeah, yeah." Arnie stood above him, hands on his hips, torn and undecided how worried he should be.

Hector frowned, a nausous grimace taking over, rolling through his face like a wave. He closed his mouth shut but his throat jostled with another gag, stomach spasming and letting go.

Arnie croched down at his side again. "Still doing that? So weird."

Hector rubbed at his stomach through his sweaty shirt. "Uhmmm....it's upset."

Arnie hunted down a the room's trashcan in response, ready on the ground next to Hector's head. "Right here, if you need it."

Hector's back rolled with another sickly gas bubble. He rubbed at his temples, pressing against them like he wanted to claw them out. "I can still see the fucking sun erupting in my head."

"Yep, that's annoying. No light shows for you, man."

Arnie got up, his legs falling asleep. He was getting tired from the worry and the relief.

Hector stirred without opening his eyes. "Stay?"

Arnie rubbed the back of his head. It was so rare for Hector to be so mushy. "Sure. Just let me brush my teeth."

A sleep wave was pulling him as he climbed up next to Hector on the bed. He had to navigate his way through the dark since Hector moaned pitifully at any light.

Hector immediately rolled closer, a heavy overheated arm around Arnie like he wanted to secure an anchor in the stormy sea.

"'s not scared of me," Hector murmured, half-asleep.

Arnie patted the hand on his waist with a sigh. Maybe he would be able to sleep better tonight.

[darkdevasofdestruction]

hello! if you’re still taking requests for gangsta could i get some hcs of nic with a hard of hearing s/o? kinda like how they would’ve met, how they interact, that kind stuff. 🥺👉👈 thank you so much!

 Oh yes, I get you with the hard of hearing thing, my senses are so poor it’s become a joke now xD

Though you’re not deaf, your hearing is literal shit, to the point that it’s become a thing you joke about a lot with your friends.

Whenever you’re not fully paying attention to someone speaking, you have to ask them to repeat what they were saying since you barely picked up a thing or two about what they were trying to say.

Still, you’re very easy going and chill about the whole situation, and though you hope it doesn’t bother your friends much, you’re not bothered by it either way.

Whether you know what caused your hearing to diminish from the normal parameters, it didn’t even matter anymore.

You first met Nicolas when him and Worick were chasing after a criminal, and the blond called out to you to get out of the way, but you were listening to music on your earbuds so of course you had no idea what was going on behind you - Until the Japanese man bumped into your side roughly, making you fall to the ground with a great thud.

Not only that, but he got off balance and thumbled too, leaving only the Gigolo chasing after that guy while Nic was recovering from the fall.

 The man, now on top of you, got up quickly and extended his hand to you - Which you took - And he started mumbling something.

And you just looked up at him and blinked in confusion.

Which made him look at you weirdly, as to why weren’t you sketching any reaction at all.

“Can you say that again, please?”

And the man repeated the small word - But you didn’t pick it up this time, but in your defense, it sounded like gibberish altogether and you had no idea why he was speaking so unclearly.

Still, you tried to decipher in your head what he tried to say, and then, with a Eureka expression on your face, you let out an ‘Ohhh!’ sound.

“Oh, you apologised! Don’t worry about it, it happens!” your chill, innocent smile surprised him, but at the same time, he thought it was absolutely beautiful.

And what a coincidence, you though he was very attractive too, and seeing how he was just standing there, smiling awkwardly, you asked if he wanted to go for a coffee, to which he immediately agreed, forgetting all about his mission or his partner.

That was your first date.

Sure, he got a lot of shit from Worick after outright deserting him in the middle of a mission, but at the end of the day, he finally got such a nice date!

A date that’s tragic at the basic function of hearing, just like him.

Worick would tease the both of you a LOT. Just because he can.

But he’s very supportive of the two of you, especially since Nic is finally happy.

Speaking of Nic-...

Though he’s not outright speaking about you, he’s always thinking about you, and whenever he does, he has that dreamy smile on his face like he’s drunk in love.

He’s literally the sweetest man in the world, and though a bit clumsy, he’s such a gentleman.

Always brings you flowers or little trinkets, always finds new stories to gossip about with you, and has the best hungs in the world.

This man is so touch starved that if you start petting his hair, he’ll have a kitten grin and outright melt in your touch, even going as far as to cuddle in your arms.

He always wants to impress you, and the best way to do that is with his strength - So as often as he can, even as a surprise, he’ll pick you up bridal style, or as a piggy back ride and walk with you around as much as you like.

And don’t even get me started on how he jumps around with you from the roof of the buildings and laugh merrily with you because you’re having so much fun and he loves making you happy.

He’s absolutely the best boyfriend in the world, bless his soul, and if anyone dares even look at you the wrong way, they will become sashimi.

Overall, the best thing about your relationship is that you don’t have to worry about not hearing what Nic is saying, because you speak in sign language -

But there are some things that he’s forcing himself to speak out loud, and those are his short love confessions.

Whether he says ‘I love you’, ‘You’re beautiful’ or ‘You make me happy’, he will always, without fail, speak it out, and make sure he has your face cupped in  his hands and share a tender eye contact so he knows his feelings are properly shared.

[adarkrainbow]

The art of Perrault (1)

I found this fascinating article on an art-and-museum website talking about the few times Charles Perrault's fairytales entered the world of art. It's entirely in French, but for those non-French speakers I thought of sharing some elements and points made by the article.

First and foremost, their talk of the Gustave Doré illustrations, THE most famous illustrations of Perrault's fairytales to this day.

A few contextual reminders. We are in the 19th century, the time of nationalism, where each country focused onto itself, explaining the boom of interest for national folktales and fairytales. The literary Romanticism had also started to enter the world of the art - in the British world it was through the Victorian "fairy painting" wave of the 1850s and 1860s. And in France, right as the business of illustrated books and precious engravings is soaring, we got the Gustave Doré illustrations for Perrault.

The book they come from is the Pierre-Jules Hetzel Contes de Perrault edition of 1861 (illustrations by Gustave Doré, preface by P.-J. Stahl). It contains the eight prose tales of Perrault, from his Histoires ou Contes du temps passé (Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, Bluebeard, Puss in Boots, Cinderella, Little Thumbling, Toads and Diamonds, Riquet with the tuft), plus a prose version of Donkey Skin. The book contains 40 illustrations, all based on models and drawings of Doré, though done by several engravers that were selected by both Hetzel and Doré: François Pannemaker, Héliodore and Anthelme Pisan. In 1861 the engravings themselves were shown, on their own, at the art Salon de peinture et sculpture (the huge yearly artistic event of 19th century France) - they were destined for collections, be them the personal collections of Doré and his engravers, or those of wealthy collectors.

The order of the fairytales was changed in this edition, which decided to go: Little Red Riding Hood, Little Thumbling, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Puss in Boots, Riquet with the tuft, Donkey Skin, Diamonds and Toads, and Bluebeard at the end.

The Bibliothèque Nationale of France and the Musée d'art moderne et contemporain of Strasbourg have both preserved precious photographies which were taken (by Nadar and Michelez) of the original wood-drawings Doré made for these illustrations. Doré had them exposed at the Louis Martinet galerie, and these photos are VERY precious because they are the only trace we have of Doré's original plans for these pictures - as well as the only way we can know of what changes and modifications the engravers brought to them.

Doré's illustrations reveal many things. First and foremost, how fairytales clearly were not just for children at the time. While he tries to stay true to the letter of Perrault's stories, Doré still uses a Romantisme noir style (dark Romanticism), offering dramatic, phantasmagorical, almost oppressive visions. The complex engravings play on the lights and the shadows, on the size of the characters and those of the landscape ; they also make heavy use of the monstrous and the uncanny. In the Little Thumbling illustrations, there is an effort to convey the loneliness and anguish of the characters - the forest is endless, dark and scary, swallowing the children... The compositions are however still very detailed, with a lot of accumulations, because they are to be beautiful and aesthetically pleasing. For example, the picture of Bluebeard's wife receiving the keys shows a lot of precious cloth and a varied jewelry - and this overbearing of the decorum, mixed with the unusual appearance of Bluebeard (especially his gaze) all conveys the tragedy that is unfolding here.

By opposition to these scenes of cruelty and tragedy, Doré makes several more "peaceful" illustrations. Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella are still filled with mystery and disturbingness, but they are rather dominated by the sweetness of the two young women. Doré doesn't limit himself to strong and isolated characters, on the contrary he creates an entire "decorative universe" just to have his characters fit into a narrative. The overabundance of tiny details causes an almost unconscious reverie, making the audience almost "re-discover" Perrault texts anew.

The illustrations of Doré caused the massive success of the Hetzel edition, and very quickly these pictures became part of popular culture, influencing the way Perrault's fairytales were perceived up to this day.

[rreskk]

Hi, Trevor fingerfuck the reader until she squirts, a little overstimulation maybe... can you?

A/N: Absolutely! Thank you for the request <3

Summary: He hates being awake when you're asleep, so he does something about it.

TW: -Smut

Word count: 1680

Pairings: Fem!reader/Trevor Philips

He was lied on his bed, boredom completely frying his brain as well as the profanity of drugs he had taken the hours beforehand. You were crashed out beside him – legs tangled, clothes off; stripped naked from the nightly activities. It was early morning (6am) and he was woken up by his insufferable insomnia. Trevor just wanted to sleep peacefully. He’d glance at your exposed chest with eager eyes, but you were fast asleep. He doesn’t blame you, not at all. You experienced it rough and raw, with pleasure, and with love (from Trevor himself).

“When the fuck you gonna wake up, huh?” He’d huff at your sleepy frame, his fingers tingling for some action. His high sex drive had led you into becoming his ultimate obsession, his complete favourite person, favourite girl – His girl.

 “I’m getting’ so… Horny, baby.”

Yet you remained breathing heavily asleep. A sigh left his lips and he slumped back against the pillows. Waking up to the sight of your breasts and frame had led him no justice. He was yearning and struggling to cope with it. Too much of him is throbbing; hands, boner, lips, tongue.

God… Trevor needed to taste you. He wonders if you taste or react differently when asleep… He wonders if you’d love it as much as you were awake.

Struggling to settle back down, he clicked his tongue and stared up to the ceiling. Every time he stares at the tile patterns, there’s always something new to see. For years he’s been making shapes out of the ceilings material. He hoped to find something worth his curiosity, going through the efforts of rotating and tilting his head.

“I swear I saw an outline of tits last week…” Trevor murmured and squinted at the ceiling.

But there was too many shapes to count. His drug-fuelled brain couldn’t handle the pressure and he immediately sulked back against the mattress, in a bitter mood with himself for feeling bored and alone. You were right there, within arm reach, within hand reach… He’d shake you awake with a rough, passionate kiss – Why doesn’t he?

He observed your sleepy face and found it incredibly endearing and divine. The urge to cradle and toy with your sensitive areas was quite frankly huge. Trevor stared at your sleepiness and shuffled closer so his bare crotch was subtly buried between your ass and curves. He grunted. The warmth wasn’t enough.

“C’mon… I’m starvin’ for you, baby. Wake up, for me? Yeah?” He’d whisper against your absent ears, slowly entrancing his arms around your waist. Trevor possessively clenched your stomach – his hands greeting each other and captivating you into his embrace.

Resting his chin upon your shoulder, his eyes remained fixated on your unconscious face as his fingers slowly trickled down your stomach, thumbling under the covers and reintroducing himself with your sex. His thumb gracefully caresses your folds and aching for some more coverage. There was no response from your sleepy figure yet; a sign to carry on experimenting.

“Wakey wakey…”

Trevor added pressure to his thumb that migrated from your outer area, routing through your privacy and groaning at how warm, but also wet you were, already… He cackled, that horrific breath penetrating your earlobes as he had a natural response from your body. With the wetness seeping quickly, his thumb was able to access your sex deeper until it was fully applied – earning a breathy gasp from your departed lips.

His eyes met your closed ones. You were still asleep, cutely.

“You’re killin’ me, sugar… I miss you. Wake up, c’mon… I’ll treat you real nice,” There was desperation behind his pleads. He cradled your body, his thumb still exploring through your throbbing pussy. The Adams apple based in his neck quivered in torment – “I love you, I love your cunt, I love your fuckin’ tits, babe. Lemme love you, I want you awake.”

He acutely leaned down, biting your shoulder with this hand continuing the hard-labour under the stained sheets. Trevor’s tongue tasted the salty sweat from your skin as his teeth grazed the surface.

“Wake up…”

Your body arched into Trevor’s hips. Whether this was self-projected, he whined and panted like a loose dog. He couldn’t hold himself back. You were practically pulsing around his thumb, something told him you were crying for more. He knew you wouldn’t mind… This wasn’t exactly a regular occurrence, but it has happened before; more than once. Trevor had found himself drooling over your exhaustion (some evenings ago) and “helped” wake you up, spiritually.

This occurrence though? He was eager, almost dying for you to wake up and whisper pleads.

“I wanna make you squirt so hard…” His hands carried on smoothing your sex as he gasped for some dignity, chin dug into the nuzzle of your neck.

Adding a second finger to support his thumb, Trevor cruelly molested your clit. His wrist was circulating at great pace. He kept his sights on you, noticing slight disturbance in your peace and grinning. He loved you faster until his arm was using all it’s muscles to contract some pleasure and aggression.

“C’mon…”

Your lips would twitch and your nostrils flared.

“Wake up, [y/n].”

Your tongue slithered through your cracked lips in anticipation.

“That’s right…” Trevor watched your eyes flutter open lazily, “There’s my girl.”

The welcome invitation of his fingers groping your cunt had roused your consciousness and comprehension. You rotated your head and exhaled as he stared back at you, breathing heavily and his saliva painfully falling from the side of his monstrous mouth.

“Trevor…” You gravely moaned and opened your legs wider.

He nodded frantically; “I know, I know. Lemme love you, c’mon. Squirt for me, girl.”

You gaped your maw and your gob was silenced by the offering of his gnarly fingers that crookedly overstimulated your pussy. The beating and bashing rapidly made you gamble out his name.

“Trevor! Fuck!”

His boredom had been replaced momentarily with determination and thrill of your soft voice. He pressed soft kisses behind your ear, one hand grasping your stomach while the other perverted your cunt into proceeding blissful donations of your seeping attraction, the wetness submerging into a wider mess. It had you pivoting around your own world.

“You’re so hot,” Trevor giggled, indirectly talking, “Keep moaning, babe, keep doing it… You like this? C’mon, say it… You love this, don’t cha?”

“Yes, yes… Oh! Oh, please! I can’t…”

“You can.”

“Trevor – “

He found ultimate joy in your pretty little struggles, “You make me so fuckin’ happy, [y/n]. Keep taking in my finger with your sexy cunt, yeah? I’ll fuck your tits next, isn’t that right babe?”

Words had failed to apprehend his playful Baptism of your sex. You were left whispering inaudible cries; something along the lines of – “Please” and “Oh fuck.” But it barely made it out of your throat without the affects of his mannerism. Trevor had found his morning enjoyments with this, giddy as life, and he is never giddy about waking up.

“I love you so fuckin’ bad, you know that? You saint, you Goddess, my God…” His fingers sped up, squelching and substituting your inner warmth, “I want you… Shit, I-I need you. I can’t live without your pussy, babe. Shittt, I need to fuck you after this, hm? C’mon, you want the good old Trevor lovin’?”

“Please, p-please!”

Your back had fully arched into Trevor’s chest, grinding for some friction and warmth between the skin-to-skin contact. You were still barely awake, but it didn’t matter since he was working for it, the hard-labour and mobility behind his criminal hand making you feel so unlawfully lucky. Trevor may have killed with his hands – it only makes it more exciting and “naughty.”

He loves a bit of naughtiness;

Touching without your word.

Whining for your attention.

Tormenting your peace.

Then using his raging sex-addicted body to defuse any deprived tension.

He loved it all. And you did.

“You’re so wet.”

He fingered and fingered as you whinged and wailed his name. The continuous art of his fingers had probably caused internal bruising in your cunt for the next few days, especially after his repeated visit with his cock and tongue. The days straight of intimacy never outgrew as boring. Instead, it grew boring without having each other’s spit and semen buried within each other. It was his affection and it was your love confession.

“I’m gonna – “ You were instantly shut up when he nibbled your earlobe again. Trevor grunted and creepily traced his name with his fingertip upon your stomach. You could tell considering he was heaving out the letters. He imagined tattooing and permanently marking you with his name all over your used body, so immensely beautiful to his fantasies.

“Trevor, please…” You croaked.

“Trevor, please…” He mocked heavily before kissing your cheek and relentlessly loving your pussy.

“Mhm, no. M’no, stop. I need to cu – Baby! Please, don’t stop.”

“Almost there…”

“Trevor! TREVOR!”

He fingered through your climax. Trevor gasped in delight when you outspread your legs and a raging rampage of your fluids squirting out, wetting the mattress and duvets.

“FUCK!” Cried your tainted and shattered voice. It felt like an intense wave of relief washing over your stomach and chest. Butterflies had lilted from your heart to your throat, moaning sweet lullabies to his ears while you continued squirting out the remainder of your cum.

“That’s right, baby. That’s so fuckin’ hot.”

Trevor felt you dumbly sink into the pillows after you had managed to climax every ounce of your sexual depravity. He smothered your neck with sloppy kisses and praises.

“[y/n], fuck me, girl! That was so sexy, you fuckin’ tiger, ay?” His tone uplifted childishly.

“Trevor, fuck…”

“I know, baby, I know,” A hand caressed your collarbone and shoulder, “Still needy? Still horny for more? How ‘bout my cock, huh? You want me to fuck the life outta your tits and cunt, [y/n]?”

You nodded pathetically.

“Please, yes, yes.”

He giggled and massaged your jaw.

“Alright. Wake up, baby. Uncle T is now fuckin’ coming.”

[fairytalemovies]

Le Petit Poucet, 1972

[cmonbartender]

Little Tom (1922) - Otakar Štáfl

[legacyshenanigans]

To the anon that asked for an Ominis version of "Thoughts of you" Here you go.

Thoughts of you💚

Ominis edition, Mature, Masturbation, character of age, Just a short to the point drabble of Ominis having a private moment.

Ominis and you had sat together all of potions class, you were particularly flirty and touchy with him today, which he enjoyed a little too much truth be told.

Once class had finished he quickly took himself off to one of the toilets, after making sure nobody was in there first, he entered the cubicle and locked the door behind him, leaning his back and head against it "Fuck" he whispered under his breath, thumbling with the button of his pants to release his cock, he took himself in his hand and began stroking, his clouded eye's looking up towards the ceiling as he thought about how your touch and voice made him feel. Small breathless moans escaping. He bit his bottom lip and furrowed his brows as he tugged harder, the slick sound of his eager stroking filling the cubicle, he leant forward, now with one hand on the back wall, and the other continuing to pleasure himself, his head suddenly felt hot, he could still hear your voice in his head, he was loosing it, with a final half suppressed groan it happend, he panted and rode out his release for a moment while he gathered his thoughts, If this is how potions class is going to be from now on, he'd better get use to moments like this.

[lollipencil]

High Tide: Part 3

Originally this part was going to be completly different, but then I rewatched Werewolf By Night and this popped into my head.

Enjoy and be gentle ---

From the murky corner of the tank he was being held in, Steven knew he was screwed. For two whole days, he'd watched as monsters of different sizes and shapes were dragged, kicking and wailing, from the room he was in to the set of double doors just to his left. Few came out again. And those who did were always missing something.

Clumps of feathers. Patches of skin. Teeth. Whole limbs. And based on the looks of the people who stopped in front of his tank in the last couple of hours, Steven was next.

---

When the tank was carried through the double doors, the tears finally came. Warming the water around his eyes, he sliently wept as the surgical theater was revealed to him. Blood still covered the table as the man finished screwing in the specially made straps. Steven started to unconsciously shake his head, as if that little sign of intelligence was enough to stop them. But, the men turned to him, drills replaced by cattle prods, and began to unlatch the tank's lid.

Thud!

The sound startled both the men and Steven. They turned from him, focused on the doors. Faintly, human screams could be made out along with snarls and roars. Then, for just a moment, silence.

Suddenly, a wooden table came soaring through the doors. It clonked both the men in the head, one harder than the other. Both went down like boulders. A massive green body with bright red eyes strode in with purpose toward the one man who was still awake. He scrambles on the red-slick tiles, before the creature's hand clamps down on his head. The man's screams seemed crystal-clear to Steven as he watched the man burst into flames, quickly withering to a charred husk that flopped to the floor.

If Steven had been out in the open air, his quivering breaths would have been as loud as road construction at six in the morning. He couldn't stop looking at what once was the man, until a faint sound shook him.

The lid was open. One of those great, fire-inducing hands was reaching down.

With a silent scream, Steven slammed himself against the glass as flat as his body would allow him to go. Water sloshed out of the box as the hand and Steven's movements displaced it. Then, nothing happened.

The hand sat in the tank. The water remained the same tempature. No bubbling, no touching. Just was there, fingers half curled. Waiting.

Eventually, Steven turned to look at it. It looked just like a normal human hand: if they could grow big enough to enclose around most of Steven's chest, and composed of plant matter in place of flesh. Hesitantly brushing his own scaled hand over it, a texture closer to a plant stem greeted him. As Steven gripped one finger, his scales blended in almost perfectly, and the thumb moved so slowly to gently rub the back of his hand.

Oh. This creature wasn't going to hurt him.

The knowledge hit like a truck. Steven instantly sagged in relief, not even caring when the creature held him by his hips with both hands and lifted him out. A deep soothing rumble was the first clear sound Steven had heard in over two days, emanating from the creature's chest. The smell of old blood and stagnant water had Steven gag through his first breath of air.

As if suddenly noticing where they were, the creature hummed and tucked Steven into his shoulder while walking out. All of the cages in the other room were open and human bodies littered the floor. Steven just turned his head into that broad shoulder and tried to block out the massacre.

The next time he turned to the world, it was to a large and impossibly fancy bathroom. Somehow, it didn't surprise him too much. The creature set him down into the bathtub and, after some thumbling with the controls, managed to get the shower head running. Sighing happily, Steven shoved his head under the spray and shifted. Standing was harder than usual, knees wobbling from disuse, but he did it. And the feeling of warmth on his skin almost brought tears to his eyes.

Steven was so entranced by the feeling, he completely missed the creature leaving the room. At least, until he came back.

The door closing made Steven jolt slightly, only mitigated by the prominent bulk of dark green in the corner of his eye. The creature rumbled, set a bundle of clothes on the closed toilet seat, and waved on his way back out. Turning off the shower head, Steven staggered over to the towel rail.

Once he was moderately sure that he was dry, Steven pulled everything on and left the bathroom. The creature was waiting by the door, hairdryer in hand and plugged in. Soon after, Steven's newly fluffy hair was hidden behind a knitted hat.

And, with a mutual nod, they both left.

---

Jack stirred with the usual aches after a full moon. And to a voice that was very unusual. "-yeah, just like that," the new voice softly encouraged, "They can be read from left to right, right to left, or in columns from up to down. You see the ones with faces?" Ted grumbled in agreement, and Jack relaxed and began to crawl out of his shelter. "They will always face the direction you should read it from."

The new voice was bundled in warm clothes and a gentle smile. What looked like egyptian hieroglyphs were drawn in the dirt, Ted was studying them with interest. Once Ted noticed Jack was awake, he hummed and offered him a cup of coffee. "Thanks," Jack murmered tiredly. "Good morning," their guest waved as Ted refilled his cup, "Cheers, mate." The skin of his hands briefly shifted to green and amber scales with webbed, clawed fingers, answering Jack's unspoken question.

"Rough night," Jack noted. "Yeah, got better though. I'm Steven." "Jack, hope I didn't do any upsetting last night-" "No, no, you were fine! You were already asleep anyways, got more than I did."

After that, silence settled in. Suddenly, Ted hummed a question in their direction. "Would you like to join us for breakfast?" Jack translated. "That sounds, really good," Steven admitted, "What were you guys thinking of?" "I think there's a bakery not too far from here?" "...Yeah alright."