#The Cricket on the Hearth

[jacmirie]

daily doodle challenge - set 50

[uwmspeccoll]

Publishers’ Binding Thursday

For this holiday season Publishers’ Binding Thursday post, this is Christmas Stories by Charles Dickens, published by Whitman Publishing Company of Racine, WI in 1940. The book features a weirdly unseasonal publishers’ binding featuring pink and white illustrations on a cream/yellowish book cloth. Unfortunately our copy is missing the front of its dust jacket, but at least the binding remains largely undamaged. 

Included in the book are three stories by Charles Dickens: “A Christmas Carol,” “The Chimes,” and “The Cricket on the Hearth.” Only “A Christmas Carol” is illustrated. The endpapers are truly the star of this book, though, and feature a lovely illustration of the town getting ready for Christmas. The illustrations are by Milwaukee artist and cartoonist Erwin Louis Hess (1906-1999) who had just started working as a comic book artist for Dell Publicaotions at this time.

We hope all your Christmas preparations are going smoothly and that all will have a happy holiday!

View more Publishers’ Binding Thursday posts. 

View more posts on Whitman Publishing Company books.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

[ellie88-blog-blog]

Remember “The Cricket on the Hearth”? Well, Lucky You Have Me

Rankin/Bass's animated musical "Cricket on the Hearth" (1967) is a holiday film narrating the story of Cricket Crocket who ends up living with the financially-troubled Plumber family.

In keeping with the holiday season, I decided to watch the Rankin/Bass follow up to Rudolph, “Cricket on the Hearth” (1967).  This is another Christmas classic I grew up watching, but unlike Rudolph, I don’t remember it playing every year. In fact, I don’t remember seeing it until I was a bit older, maybe early 2000s. Now, I own it on Blu-Ray and can watch it year in and year out. While this made…

[unrighteousbooks]

An appealing little copy of Dickens' The Cricket on the Hearth from 1906.

[novelmonger]

I read another of Charles Dickens' Christmas stories, The Cricket on the Hearth. First of all...why is this billed as a Christmas story???? I mean, I know there are certain movies like Die Hard that people debate back and forth about whether they count as Christmas movies, but most of those at least take place around Christmastime. The Cricket on the Hearth takes place at the end of January! It doesn't even count as a New Year's story like The Chimes!

That aside, though, this was a really nice little story. It's about a happy little family of a courier, his much younger wife, their little baby, and the girl they've taken in to help with the baby. In true Dickens fashion, all of the characters are vibrant and interesting, jumping off the page and into your heart before you quite realize what's happening.

Much of the story centers around friends of theirs, an old toy maker and his blind daughter. Because he doesn't want her to know how hard their life really is, he lies to her about what their house looks like, how well off they are, and even lies about the gruff man who buys their toys to sell, saying that he is their benefactor and just pretends to be mean to them. Everything starts falling apart when he realizes that she has fallen in love with this false impression of the toy merchant, who is planning to marry someone else. At the same time, a stranger shows up and puts the idea into the courier's head that his wife is having an affair. Misunderstandings abound and throw everything into turmoil, until in the end everything is explained and straightened out, and it all concludes with merriment and festivity--even for the gruff old miser, who turns a new leaf and apologizes for treating them all so harshly.

One thing I particularly liked was how the courier handled the misunderstanding about his wife being unfaithful to him. Usually, when a situation like this arises in a story, I hate it because it's so obvious that if the characters just sat down and had a frank discussion of what's really going on, the conflict would be over right then. Especially in a relationship like this, where they've already been married for years, it makes you question how strong the relationship really was to start with, if it's so easy to throw it into doubt. But even though he lets doubts creep in without just asking her about it directly, even though he loses a whole night of sleep because he's agonizing over it all, he doesn't just jump to conclusions and immediately forget everything he actually knows about her. He reminds himself, over and over again (with the help of some "fairies," which may or may not be real), of how loyal and kind she's always been. He comes to the conclusion, before the misunderstanding is cleared up, that she actually hasn't done anything wrong, and if she would be happier with a younger man more suited to her, he's not going to get in the way, because he cares more for her happiness than his. Though the whole situation was a little convenient/contrived, it ended up in such a refreshing way, I didn't really mind.

Also, I must say...even though Dickens wrote a good century before Tolkien coined the term, Dickens is one of the best exemplars of eucatastrophe I know. The endings especially of these Christmas stories (whether they're technically about Christmas or not!) is just so full of everything suddenly turning on its head and becoming, not just all right again, but so filled with joyful exuberance. It's not just "the misunderstanding is resolved and they reassure each other they still love each other." It's not just "the old man realizes the error of his ways and resolves to put things right." No, we have joyful parties with an overabundance of good food. We have crowds of people surging into a small room and dancing around, laughing for sheer joy. We have bright lights, a cheerful blaze on the hearth, children running, dogs barking, songs are sung, hands are shaken, the whole world rings with gladness!

No, this isn't a Christmas story in my book. But it's the perfect thing to read on a bitterly cold winter's day like this one, because it warms me from head to toe.

[everything-person]

Kazoos Advent Calendar

@kazoosandfannypacks Day

Todays gift.

After Gepetto died and Pinocchio was grow Jimny went on to find another family that needed his help. He came to the hearth of David and Emma and sibling pair that lived on a humble farm. Emma was engaged to a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy Killian Jones, who was set to go to sea for 2 years. A year passed and word came to them that Killian was lost at sea. Emma retreated into herself. David almost lost everything until Mr Hyde bought his farm and allowed them to live on it as they work. David against Jimnys advice lies to Emma about their situation. What happens when a strange man begins to come around and Mr Hyde takes a liking to Emma?

[booloocrew-blog]

Every day, I wonder how the hell this is a kids movie 

[starless-nightz]

I saw the anon who asked for the Nico x reader and it gave my silly wlw brain an idea. Can I please request Clarisse x daughter of Hestia reader? Thank you!

Clarisse with a daughter of Hestia! S/O

note -> I LOVE CLARISSE SO MUCH AHHHHH!!!

warnings -> none.

content includes -> fluff, teasing, protective! Clarisse, more i am too lazy to add.

While Clarisse is fiercely headstrong, you balance her with calm and nurturing. While Clarisse would probably be the first to dive into a fight, you, the daughter of Hestia, are more often the one to comfort her with gentle words and warm cuddles that soothe, especially after a talk with her father.

Clarisse can't help but tease yoz a little now and then, often referring to you as "Hearth Girl" or "Little Flame" with a smirk on her face. There's always something in her eyes, though, always softer when she looks at you, and you know it's Clarisse's way of being sweet.

Clarisse is fiercely protective of you, especially since she views you as a soothing balm in her otherwise crazy world. She's always watching out for you at Camp Half-Blood, and anyone who gets in your way has to answer to Clarisse. You usually find it cute, even if you are more than capable of taking care of yourself.

You, as the daughter of Hestia, have a knack for home in a place, no matter where it is, and that is something Clarisse truly appreciates, though she may rarely say it out loud. She likes going back home to the snugly fit places her other half creates for her, be it a well-lit cabin or even an area at the campsite with a warm blanket ready.

Clarisse doesn’t open up nor does she show people her softer side, you are the only person who has ever seen her soft side. Often enough, she just places her head on your shoulder, allowing herself to be vulnerable in the safety of sour warmth. And you know such moments are few and fond.

People will often find you encouraging her, either with a pep talk before some big training or quietly tending to her injuries after battles. You know how to be supportive without making her feel weak, which Clarisse respects a lot.

You love showing your love in small acts, like setting aside some dessert and saving it for Clarisse, patching her armor with much care, or leaving little notes of encouragement for her. At first, Clarisse acts as though this means nothing; but you know she saves each note somewhere safe.

Although she tries to behave as if it does not matter, deep inside, Clarisse likes being domestic in your relationship. She found some sense of comfort in watching you tend to the hearth or make tea, being glad to sit nearby, pretending she wasn't just enjoying the warmth and comfort of your presence.

Many nights the two sit at the warmly burning campfire and talk deep into the night. Clarisse is not the talkative sort, but her words come with much more ease when around her are the sounds of crickets and your gentle humming, keeping her warm. She finds comfort in it.

Although Clarisse is not particularly good at revealing her feelings, she learns from you. She tries to return the favor by rearing to cook or making a little picnic around the campfire. Sometimes it may not be perfect, but you always appreciate that and reassure her that the thought counts.

[whomstsnek]

i know i said i was never drawing a tiger again but.

i was having thoughts.

Only about halfway through OUAW so idk if any information gets revealed about Frost's family/life before the Krew, but I felt compelled to make my own OCs n headcanons :3

Meet Breeze (Gentle Breeze), Cadence (Cadence of Water), and Cricket (Chirping of Crickets), Frost's father, mother, and kid sister respectively.

I'm not 100% sure what I want to do with Frost's backstory necessarily (or what's in canon lol) but I imagine they lived in a small farming village at the base of a mountain, and they themselves were farmers. Breeze did a lot of the physical labor around the farm, and Cricket really enjoyed helping him work the field. Cadence, on the other hand, was more devoted to the more homely duties around the homestead, such as cooking and cleaning, and Frost preferred helping her around the house whenever possible.

I think that Frost and Cricket were very close as children, almost like Laios and Falin from Delicious in Dungeon in terms of inseparability. A lot of their evenings were spent knee-deep in the nearby creek skipping stones during the summer or curled up by the hearth during the winter. They went everywhere together, planned their futures together, and she was the only thing truly holding him back when he was considering joining the psionic order.

Personality wise, I think that both Breeze and Cadence were fairly mild mannered. They both value balance between duty and enjoyment, that enjoyment can be found in duty and that it is one's duty to enjoy life. Breeze is the more easy-going between the two of them, embodying the concept of "one's duty to enjoy life". While he does take great pride in the work he does, he makes every moment a devotional act to being. He values his family and community above all else. Cadence, on the other hand, embodies "enjoyment in one's duty". She takes what she does seriously, and while she absolutely takes time to revel in the joy of living, she also takes great pleasure and pride in the work she does. She values hard work, particularly for her family, above all else.

Cricket is completely different from both her parents and Frost; she's a little spitfire who thrives on mischief. She of course knows that there is a time and a place for all things, and has no qualms about buckling down to do her work when needed, but she enjoys being rowdy and rough-and-tumble. As a child, she used to dream about either being a superstar bard, or an undefeated gladiator, someone whose name was known all across Avantris.

[annwrites]

⸻ no sound but the wind. part one.

· pairing: adar x fem!reader · type: part of mini-series · summary: adar finds personal use for you as a slave of a different kind. · tw: non-con · word count: 3,212

“And do you swear allegiance to Adar, father of the Uruks?”

You stare ahead at the man he speaks of—if he is even truly a man at all—observing his long, black, silken hair, his gray, sallow skin, the ruined sides of his face where the skin is pulled taught from scarring due to, you presume, fire—his thin lips tightly pursed while he awaits your answer. And it���s then that you notice his pointed ears.

His is an elf. How—how could he let this happen? How can he partake in it? He is meant to be wise and strong, yet gentle and fair. Not…whatever he has instead become.

It does not much matter how he has come upon the path which he now follows. What’s done is done.

All is now lost that once was to you because of it. That you’d most loved. That which had brought you joy and much more.

Like your village, where trees had flowered and bloomed year-round. Those of almond and chestnut, apple and peaches, sour lemons and limes. Some, which ivy grew upon the trunks of, while blossoms were peppered throughout green leaves that dappled the ground below in sunlight, which rays shone through from a clear blue sky above—white, fluffy clouds slowly floating past.

Or lush, soft, green grass which you would lie upon and nap. Clear, cool running water in streams that were always warm in the summer, and crisp in the autumn when those same sticky apples fell into the soil, feeding it until the year next when farmers would tend their fields of potatoes, carrots, pumpkins, lettuce, and strawberries—the various types of crops nearly endless. Mayhaps a few bushes of berries were to be had, as well.

Animals grazed the fields: cows and sheep and goats alike, and chickens would peck about around the settlement while pigs oinked in their pens, lazy cats slept upon windowsills, and pups ran along after smiling, playful children—their adoring parents watching along after them as young couples in love strolled into the small market in the middle of town to purchase goods.

Like spices and cured meats, colorful fabrics and dresses, woven baskets and pillar candles, pots and pans, and shimmering, beautiful glassware, among so much more.

And there would be gatherings in the square quite regularly: dances and festivals, competitions in archery or axe throwing, or quilt-making and pie baking.  Woodworkers and blacksmiths would presents their creations to all for purchase, for the cost of a pretty, shining coin—celebrations abound. Music and delicious foods were to be had, young maidens with flowers in their hair waiting for a kiss as their dresses of chiffon and tulle swayed round their slippered feet.

In the evenings, fireflies would flit through the air like tiny sparks of light while you and your mother would prepare dinner, your father always tending to something. Whether it was in your household’s small stables outside—where horses would quietly whinny as he fed them or brushed them down—or inside, fixing something in the cottage where the three of you lived contentedly.

And you would listen through open windows to crickets and cicadas while you quietly read your parents a story or two from a novel you’d retrieved from upon the mantle your grandfather had designed when the home had been his and your grandmother’s—the books hers—the three of you sitting before a small fire in the main room’s hearth.

And now… Now the once-fertile and emerald hills are unrecognizable. They have been, instead, replaced by black sludge and darkened, smoking ash—the skies overcast and always looking to be on the verge of an ugly storm as these hideous beasts rape the land for all it is worth.

They take and they take, and for what? Perhaps merely just to destroy for the sake of the act.

You will not willingly partake in ruining your beloved homeland. You would rather die and be with them: your family, your friends—forever to live upon those rolling hills once you shut your eyes for the last time.

You raise your chin, ignoring how it trembles when you meet his black, empty eyes.

He does not react. Does not so much as raise a brow in interest as he gazes back at you.

Something shifts behind you, and you steel yourself—refusing to look. You will not tremble in the face of death which calls you home.

And then he raises a hand from where it rests beside him, upon the arm of his make-shift throne—but barely, at that.

“Wait,” he calls quietly.

You hear something settle into the dirt and gravel behind you once more.

He rises slowly, descending step after step in measured moves, until he’s standing before you.

He places an index finger beneath your chin, tipping your face upwards, forcing you to meet his eyes.

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“Comely little thing, aren’t you?” He says softly, his voice monotone.

You keep your mouth shut.

He nods infinitesimally. “Take her to my tent. Ensure she’s watched carefully. I’ve use for this one.”

One of the monsters he commands takes hold of your upper-arm, his other hand coming to tug at the shackles which bind you, pulling you away.

“Kill me!” You finally shout, tears brimming in your eyes.

He turns slightly from where he’s begun ascending his throne once again, looking at you from over his shoulder.

You tug against your restraints, pulling free of the revolting thing that touches you.

“I want to die, so kill me. I’m of no use you to here. I do not know how to…”

You shake your head, grasping for words in your panic. “How to carve wood, or assemble structures, or break apart stone—”

He chuckles lowly, turning round fully, coming back to you.

He slides his rough hand along your soft cheek before cupping the back of your head. He tangles his strong fingers in your hair, yanking your head back by those same strands, causing you to whimper in pain.

“You think I desire you for hard labor?”

You gulp in fear.

“I have far different plans in-mind for you. You will serve me well in other ways. Ones more…”

His eyes trail slowly along your body, before meeting your own once again. “Suited to your feminine form.”

You choke back a sob, realization filling you, along with an unbridled sense of terror.

He releases you again, nodding toward his crony.

You’re taken in-hand once again, and led away—your pleading cries falling upon deaf ears.

Adar’s tent is nothing exceptional—somewhat opposite of what you’ve expected it to be.

His bed is not a cot, surprisingly—certainly large enough to fit two, if not two-and-a-half—and he has a rather cluttered war table, which you’ve been informed, quite firmly, that you are not to touch. So you look at it, instead, from a distance from the wooden chair you’ve been provided.

You see small metal and wooden figurines placed about—construction plans, you assume.

You fail to understand what he could possibly want with the now-destroyed land, but decide you ultimately don’t want to know. You’d rather remember it as it’d once been instead.

You glance to the entrance of his tent, where an Uruk stands guard—the flap pulled back, allowing you a peak outside as the others like him mill about, coming and going and working.

Bile rises in your throat at the sight of them. They’re wretched. Cursed. Vile.

You won’t let him touch you.

You’ll do whatever you must to instead give him cause to drive a blade through your beating heart instead. You will not dishonor yourself—not even for the sake of survival.

You will die as you had lived: as yourself.

You’d waited so long for him to come—rehearsing in your head all the ways you might achieve that which you most desire at his hand; but nevertheless of your own causing—you’d fallen asleep.

You jolt awake when heavy footsteps enter the tent, staring in fear as bastardized elves carry inside a large, wooden tub full of steaming water.

They settle it into the middle of the space, retreating just as promptly as they’d come.

And then he steps inside, the once-open curtain flapping closed behind him.

He settles his arms behind his back as he gazes down at you.

He glances to the tub, then back to you. “Bathe. Once you are finished, I shall next.”

He goes to his war table, seating himself heavily, opening a scroll which lies atop it, and he begins reading over the item in his large hand.

You remain seated, too terrified to move.

“I need…privacy,” you say—your voice breaking, tears filling your eyes.

He keeps his back turned to you. “And you have it. Now, do as I bid you.”

You slowly stand, feeling unsure on your feet—your movements hesitant and wavering—as you come closer.

You study the back of his head, nervously flitting your eyes about the table before him, searching desperately for a weapon.

“I would not attempt it.”

You jerk in surprise.

He sets the parchment aside, retrieving a small, sharply pointed figure in the shape of a diamond. “You’d do well to make things easier for yourself. Obey me, and your days will be easy. Don’t—”

You interrupt. “I’ll never give m-myself to you willingly. I’ll—I’ll kill you,” you say, the threat sounding far more like a question than anything else.

You do not see how his lip twitches in mild amusement.

Finally, he sighs, pushing out his chair, standing.

You shuffle backwards, desperate to get away from him—from this place as a whole—from all of the rot and disease that has now claimed this land you’d once called home. Once you’ve backed yourself into a solid pole, which upholds the side of the tent, you stare up at him.

“So you should instead kill me,” you finish.

He softly shakes his head, cupping your cheek gently, brushing his thumb along the apple of it.

“You merely think that you wish for death. I have quite…creative ways to make you obey, until death is so far from your grasp that all you can see ahead of you is more of whatever I’ve been forcing you to endure. Until you break. Until you are ready and willing to do as I please just to make the pain stop.”

He cups your other cheek, holding you firmly in-place.

“I have been here for a very, very long time. Longer than your young mind may ever comprehend. I am not a man who is easily swayed. Nor am I merciful to any others than my children. It is not in my nature. But, for your sake, if you do as I command, I may consider a more gentle touch.”

He releases you. “Time shall tell.”

Your face crumples and you begin to cry, all hope fleeing you of obtaining a different fate than whatever he has in-store for you.

He seats himself once more.

“Now, do as I’ve told you. I will not ask again.”

You tremble violently and feel distant from your body, but you still manage to strip yourself of your soiled, stained gown, letting the heavy material pool at your feet, before ridding yourself of your smallclothes next.

You keep your eyes on him—never removing them—as you step closer to the tub, and then ease yourself into the hot water, sucking in a sharp breath as you seat yourself.

 You grab the small bar of soap you’ve been provided, lathering yourself.

You wish to be finished sooner than late, but also want to take your time—to savor this final moment of something…nice. Because you will do it: find a way tonight to make him take your life.

You’ll not stop until he does.

The two of you remain silent as you cleanse yourself—desperate to get the stench of this new environment from your skin. It is no longer that of fresh air and flowers. It is now that of something pungent and oily.

Death.

That is what it is.

Eventually, you rise, drying yourself with a small towel, and then you glance around in a panic for clean clothes.

Just as you think to dress once again in your previous garments, he gestures toward the small wooden dresser beside the table where he sits.

“You’ll find clean tunics in the second drawer.”

Once you’ve put one on, you take a step back. “What of…trousers, or smallclot—”

“You won’t be needing them any longer,” he replies, rising, the two of you staring at one another as he unbuckles the belt from his waist which holds his sword, setting it atop the previously-occupied table.

You promptly look away, your nose growing warm and eyes stinging as you seat yourself at the foot of the bed, watching as shadows pass by the curtain at the front of the tent.

You tightly grip the blankets beneath you, considering, watching intently.

You hear water lapping, and then a quiet groan as he leans back, enjoying what heat still remains in the water that fills the tub.

“I wouldn’t,” he states in that rasping voice which barely reaches above a whisper.

You bristle.

“You’ll not make it more than a handful of steps before my Uruks return you to this tent. To me. You won’t enjoy what happens to you next.”

He sighs. “Save yourself some pain.”

“Why’re you doing this?” You ask tearfully.

He begins to wash himself, keeping his eyes trained on you. “What is it which you refer to?”

“You’re an elf. You’re supposed to… Meant to be kind. Wise and—”

“You think I value that which I come from?  You think the high elves of this land care any more for your life than they do my Uruks? Pride is their virtue. They see themselves above all else, including men. Because they’ve made it so. They would see us all sequestered away to darkened corners of Middle-Earth if it meant all could be theirs once again.”

A tear slips down your cheek. “You destroyed my home. Took everything from me. And you think I mean to give myself to you? Willingly? To play at being your—your—”

“You will be my concubine. And nothing else. That is your role now. In time…you may come to see matters differently. Come to see me differently.”

“That will never happen,” you whisper.

He rises from the tub—his damp strands dripping at the ends as he shrugs on a clean tunic, padding toward you.

He grips your chin, forcing you to look up as he towers over you. “In time, I believe it will. For your survival, if naught else. Even if you find such a prospect to be of little value to you now.”

He grabs you roughly by the arm then, forcing you to your feet.

Your chest presses against his own as tears slip from your exhausted eyes—your heart pounding like a hammer against cloth at him being so close.

“I’ll give you one final chance, child. Give your body to me willingly, and be given mercy, or don’t, and I will unleash upon you pain unlike any you’ve ever known.”

You make a split-second decision, praying it be your last.

You swing your free arm upwards, swiftly, and slap him as hard as you possibly can.

He barely reacts as he turns his head back in your direction, shaking it lightly.

“Pain it is, then.”

He throws you back onto the bed, swiftly removing his tunic, settling all his muscled weight atop you, weighing you down—forcing you into place as he forces your own garment up and over your head, ignoring your screaming, pleading, panicked protests as you battle against him.

You squirm and pound your fists against his chest, and kick your legs and wail in terror, but he acts as if he does not even notice.

He grips each of your wrists tightly in his hands, holding them above your head while he knocks your legs apart with his knee.

You suddenly still, fervently shaking your head, choking on your own tears as you struggle to draw in even one steady breath.

“Please—Please don’t. I beg of you! Please, not this! Please, please!” You scream shrilly.

“I gave you another way and you refused it. Now, you will learn.”

He plunges inside of you with one forceful buck of his hips and you choke on your own saliva at the excruciating pain which manifests between your thighs. Burning. You feel as if you are on fire where his body now connects with your own.

And he is anything but gentle, just as he had promised you he would be.

He ruts away inside of you, grunting quietly, his skin slapping against yours as his long, throbbing member plunges in and out of you while he searches for his peak against your will.

You stare upwards, at the billowing canopy, desperate for it to end. Desperate to die. To disappear.

This is nightmare from which you will never wake, and you have naught to comfort you from it.

No home.

No family.

No friends.

No warm bed of your very own where you may rest.

No village which is full of joy and safety.

No nothing.

Nothing is left.

Not even that which you’d hoped to one day give to your husband.

He has taken every single thing, and intends to take even more yet still.

You break then—far sooner than expected, than you'd hoped—resigning yourself to letting him have it.

You will instead go away inside yourself, back to the place you most wish to return to.

And you find peace there. In a quiet field where vibrant butterflies flit about, and chimes which hang upon tree branches tinkle gently in the wind.

You close your eyes, humming in contentment as the sun warms your skin, listening as sheep baa at one another close by.

And then you are ripped from the fantasy and forced back inside that claustrophobic tent as he pours himself deeply inside of you, moaning as he takes his final thrusts—pushing his rotten seed further into your core.

Finally, he collapses beside you, heaving for breath.

You do not move. Not an inch.

Hot tears slip silently from the corners of your eyes while he runs out of you elsewhere. Your body begins to gently jerk against your will in shock, and you sniffle and whimper in pain and fear.

After a moment, he rises, washes himself off, then pours for himself a mug of water, downing it quickly.

He pours himself another, leaning back against the dresser across from where you lie.

“It will get easier when you let it,” he states.

He takes another long drink. “It’s been…many years since I’ve had a woman—a maiden, even more-so.”

You refuse to look at his blood-stained member.

He returns to you, seating himself upon the edge of the bed, his leg bent at the knee as he gently grasps your chin, his fingers ghosting along your hot skin.

“As such, I don’t intend to let you go. So, do what you must.”

He sets his mug atop the bedside table, climbing atop you once more.

“I shall do the same,” he states, sheathing himself inside your slick core once again.

[shakespearesdaughters]

“There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.” ― Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

[homelanderbutbig]

My Hero (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1082 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

The first time you went to Homelander's cabin.

This is the first time Homelander's invited you to spend the night at his cabin. You know that him even asking you to come with him is something special as his cabin is the place he goes to get away from the rest of society. It was a pretty sudden question too, as he asked you the second you entered his penthouse after your evening shift. In fact, he didn't even give you time to pack your pajamas as he was already scooping you up into his arms to fly off the balcony.

A few minutes later he touches down hard in the middle of a dense forest, causing leaves to float up all around him from the force of his impact. As you begin to regain your bearings, you try and grasp where exactly you landed. The area is pitch black, with the foliage blocking out the moonlight from above. The only sounds you can hear are a few crickets chirping in the distance, and the crunching of leaves under Homelander's feet while he walks. You're still held tight in his arms, so close to his chest that you barely even see the outdoor lights illuminating his secluded hideaway's exterior.

The cabin itself is dimly lit, with a chandelier being the only source of light inside. It's a challenge to make out any of the interior decorations, though it's impossible to ignore the sheer size of the furniture. Similarly to his penthouse, everything in the cabin had to be built oversized, larger than life, just for the supe who towers over everyone.

When he finally releases you to the ground, he stands silently in place waiting for you to break the ice. Entertaining company is not a type of situation where he has much experience, and he's already fairly stressed from his exhausting day being paraded around by Vought. He wants you to tell him what to do, or at least what you want to do.

You decide to start exploring the cabin's main floor, sauntering over to the massive couch where you expect to spend the majority of the evening. Directly in front of the couch is a fireplace, and you discover that it's already been prepped for a roaring fire with a hefty stack of logs. There is also a matchbox on the hearth, perhaps left behind by someone else. Picking up the box reveals that there are still a few matches inside, so you take one out and attempt to strike it. You aren't having much success, but you aren't giving up quite yet.

Wordlessly watching from the entrance, Homelander sees you struggle with your task. The more you keep failing, the more he can feel his own frustration growing. You're spending so much time on this activity that you've assigned to yourself; you aren't even paying attention to him. With a deep exhale and a roll of his eyes, he storms over and kneels down beside you. Before you can utter a sentence, he uses his laser vision to quickly set the the logs on fire.

As his lasers dissipate, he notices that you are frozen in place, hands halfway through another attempt at lighting the match. He feels a wave of anxiety constricting throughout his chest, and angles his head away from you. Did he go too far with his powers? He's scared you, he knows it. His abilities frighten everyone around him, even when he's restraining himself. If his powers are too much for other supes to handle, how could he have expected that you would be any different?

Suddenly, he feels your gentle touch caressing the side of his face, shaking him out of his compounding thoughts. When he looks back at you, there isn't even the slightest hint of fear anywhere on your face. As a matter of fact, you look… appreciative.

"Thank you for helping me Homelander," you compliment, your voice so easily soothing the self-inflicted scorches to his ego. "But…" you trail off, your words taking him hostage. But what? Did he do something wrong? Did he not do it to your satisfaction?

"But… you missed one sweetie," you remark, pointing to the one stray log in the corner of the fireplace, the only one not sporting a flame.

Oh.

He huffs a short laugh at that response, letting go of the breath he didn't even realize he was still holding. You see him start to smile from your sneaky little bait-and-switch reply as the uneasiness drains from his body. You're pretty sure that is the first time he's had a genuine smile on his face all day. Even if nobody else can tell his real smile from his 'in-public fake celebrity smile', you take solace in knowing you get to keep this secret all to yourself.

With the utmost precision, Homelander uses his laser vision to ignite the one log. He then turns back to you, waiting with a shy smirk for you to continue your praise.

"My hero," you giggle, readjusting yourself to your knees so you can give him a proper kiss. It really doesn't take much for you to have him wrapped around your finger, just a simple kiss and your hands on his cheeks. But those small acts speak a thousand words to a man who was neglected of that love his whole life. You hear him practically purring into your lips with each stroke of your fingers as he becomes enraptured by your affections. He's leaning closer and closer towards you until he finally just picks you up to place you on his expansive thighs. His hands are formed perfectly to your hips as you feel his big fingers rubbing along your back, a small gesture to return your own caresses.

Breaking from your kiss, you get the chance to look into his eyes, shining as radiant blue windows into his soul. He may have entered the cabin as a frazzled mess, but right now he completely relaxed. He is a mountain of a man that is putty in your hands.

"Hey, why don't we cuddle on the couch?" you say softly, nuzzling your forehead into his. "We'll have the perfect view of the fire."

Homelander nods as he hums happily at your request, knowing full well that your cuddle session also means he gets to have some head scratches too. A perfect ending to the evening, one that he hopes he gets to have again… the next time he invites you to the cabin.

[diorpoisonapple]

Autumn vibe🍁

“There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.”

-Little Women

[leezlelatch]

I didn’t see if your request are open or not, and if they aren’t I am sorry.

But if they are..

Chubby Fem reader x Secondo?

Blessed Be 🧿 🪬

Secondo x plus size f! reader. Body insecurity, comfort, fluff, many Secondo kissies.

Secondo sits upon a plush couch, his legs crossed. He adjusts his cuff and lays a hand upon his knee, dark sunglasses shield his eyes even while inside the boutique, and his expression remains stoic as always. Salespeople hover around nervously, unsure whether to offer him anything, or remain silent as he waits for the woman he came in with to come out of the changing room.

It's so quiet, one could almost imagine crickets, and Secondo strains to make out even the softest shuffle from within the room you were currently confined. A worker to his right glances from him to the closed changing room door several times, her feet bouncing in place before she takes a step forward. Secondo holds up his hand, silently, and the woman stops, her face pale.

He gets up, gloved fingers adjusting his waistcoat, and he steps toward the door, knuckles rapping against the wood. "Amore," his voice is quiet, a gentle rasp. "My eyes are bereft of you. Will you not come out?"

There's a beat of silence, and then the door opens with a creak, your face peering out, brow furrowed. Your cheeks are hot with embarrassment. "Nothing is working...," you murmur.

"What is not working, my dove?"

"Everything," your voice is exasperated, pained as you hide your form behind the half open door. "This isn't the store for me."

Secondo arches a brow, his sunglasses subtly lifting. "Ah, then we shall go elsewhere, sì? Do not feel as if you must pretend to like the selection for my benefit."

"The selection is fine. These just aren't clothes for someone like me..."

"I am not understanding." Secondo attempts to push the door wider and you stop it. The quickness with which you attempt to shield yourself from him, the widening of your eyes, the shame in them, they stop Secondo cold.

"No," he says. It is not in protest to you, and it is inflected with devastation, worry, love. He pushes through the door, and you make a noise as you're crowded into the small space, the door firmly closing behind him.

Secondo takes off his sunglasses, his eyes moving over your form. You're wearing a dress, a lovely shade of green, and it is form fitting. The skin under your arms spill over the cut of the sleeve, breasts filling all available space, and every roll and bump is accentuated, your belly stretching the material. He can see the outline of your belly button. And then his eyes return to your face, and you look so sad. But the way your shoulders are curved inward, and you try so hard to not look at him, he can see you're steeling yourself. Waiting for an unkind word. Waiting to be told that you are too fat, too ugly. And his heart is in agony.

"Amore. Amore mio," he coos, stepping closer. "Look at your Papa." His hand cradles your jaw, turning you so carefully to face him, and it takes a moment, but your rapidly wettening eyes meet his. "Ah, sì. There she is. My most beautiful one." His fingers brush along your skin.

You open your mouth to protest, to pull away, but he only holds firmer, his other hand falling to your waist. "No, my dove. This is when we talk. We promised to be honest with each other, you remember, hmm? When I was so stubborn, too much of a cold man. But you have kept me warm by the fires of your heart, no?" His thumb wipes away a stray tear from your cheek. "Let me be your hearth."

"I should be doing more," you say, voice hushed and thick with tears. "I should look my best for you. You take me to these nice places, and I don't want to disappoint you."

"Amore. I have never wanted you to be more than yourself. I take you to nice places because I want to spoil you, but you must tell me when you feel uncomfortable." His hand drops from your face to join his other at your waist, slowly exploring your curves, curling underneath your belly, squeezing at the plushness of your bottom, gliding over the thickness of your thighs. "There is more than one definition of healthy. What I am concerned about, is that you feel confident, not only in what you are wearing, but what you are eating. I want you to have that extra treat than deny yourself because you think it fits some outdated notion that I have no interest in. And if you want to explore different habits, I am with you. Your journey is mine, no matter what form it takes."

You let out a breath, eyes straying to the ceiling as you try and reign in your emotion. But it's so hard not to cry, so hard to just...let it all go even though you want to fall into the sweetness of his words. The gentle reverence of his touch. "I just...want you to be proud of who is on your arm."

Secondo steps forward, leg between your thighs in order to press you against the wall. You squeak in surprise, and he smiles, tilting his head to ghost his lips over yours, his breath hot against your skin. "I am proud. So proud, amore mio. This Papa does not deserve the blessing of your presence. The deliciously sinful sensation of your body pressed against his own." His fingers unzip the dress, closing the distance with a quick kiss when you sigh in relief as he pulls the tight material from your body. "I wish to drown in the beauty of you. Lose myself within the softness of your skin. You see, amore? Can you not see? I am undeserving."

His lips press featherlight to your neck, and then he bites, revelling in the way you arch against him. "You are so beautiful. Oh, my dove. Sì, sì, così perfetto per me..." The dress falls from you, pooling onto the floor, and he wraps his arms fully around you, hands flat against your back as he presses you against him with a desperate fervor, bodies melting against each other when he finally takes your lips in a passionate, deep kiss. Secondo licks into your mouth, swallowing any sound you make. His hand presses against your stomach, and he grabs at your flesh, kneading and caressing, worshipping you with hands that have overseen powerful rituals in Lucifer's name.

To Secondo, this is the most potent magic of all.

Secondo pulls away very slowly to brush his nose against yours, peppering tiny kisses to your cheeks. You take a shaky breath, fingers clinging to his jacket. "I love you," you tell him, lips pink and puffy and so perfect, he has to take another taste.

"And I love you. All of you. You are mine, hmm? You understand your Papa?" He looks deeply into your eyes, pinning you with a stare, that one that reminds you that Papa Emeritus II is just under the surface. It thrills you.

"I understand," you confirm, a smile finally crossing your features, one that he mirrors as his thumb once more strokes over your cheek.

"Good girl," he whispers.

Secondo picks up the dress and tosses it to the side, giving you space to change back into your clothes. He takes the edge of your shirt and helps you bring it down, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind as he continues to rain kisses upon every inch of your face he can reach from this position. It makes you giggle, so he does it more.

When the two of you leave the changing room, the workers are at the front, and thankfully say nothing as Secondo makes no effort to return his sunglasses to his face, that white eye rooting them to the spot as he guides you from the store. Will it be much of a surprise Monday morning when the manager receives an email from corporate about including plus sizes?

Secondo spends the entire ride home touching you in some manner, kissing you, lavishing you in the attention you rightfully deserve. Because your body is his temple, and he plans to worship it for the rest of his life.

You are more than worthy. You are perfect. You are his home.

[aaronstveit]

editing challenge vs. @beachsread ❀ favorite little women character

Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being angel, but a very human little girl, she often "wept a little weep," as Jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano... There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully, that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiney presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.

[karlachismylife]

Is it visual stimming or is he a romantic?

A little evening romance with Karlach and Soap.

Camp was as quiet as it can get out in the vast wild of Faerûn. A whimsical song of a nighttime forest clearing, crickets and birds praising the moon hidden under a thin gauze veil of ripped clouds. Tonight was scarce with stars, but occasional openings in the greyish blue waves of heavenly seas showed glimpses of magical twinkles here and there. Most of the party has already gone to sleep or at least to have their alone time in their tents, sounds of flipping book pages or an occasional clink of a bottle inside drowned out by the disorganised rhythm of campfire's crackling in the middle.

Karlach sat there, mesmerized. Watching glimmering reds and oranges of the pile of smouldering coal in the heart of a slowly dying fire - it felt like they were breathing, a rhythmic rising and falling of a mystical creature's chest, a dragon or a salamander perhaps, nestled cozily in their natural habitat of flames. It was nothing like the eternal burning of desolated Hell planes filled with smog and ashes up to what you could barely call skies. This was the closest she's had to a home hearth in ten years, and the occasionally cracking and moving on their own due to the heat coal pieces seemed friendly. Their hypnotic dance made the rest of the world around Karlach go darker, become muffled and almost disappear, to the point where she didn't even notice quite the heavy steps of a familiar figure approaching and sitting as close to her as possible.

Even right next to the campfire Soap felt Karlach's heat, radiating off of her and making the dying flames in front of them seem barely warm. Her engine wasn't even acting up, the fiery glow behind her chest calm and even, but she was still hot to be around - in all ways possible.

"Didnae think ye could get cold. It's nae even tha' chilly tonight, is it?" Johnny broke the silence with a small chuckle, turning his whole body towards the charmed - and charming - tiefling. Karlach didn't look startled even though she definitely didn't notice Soap joining her at the campfire; she just was too entranced by the shimmering coals to react accordingly, her head and body moving to mirror Soap's inviting friendly pose, but her eyes staying glued to the enchanted dragon treasure in the heap of still warm ash.

"Nah, mate. Just... watchin'." Her answer was a bit slow, delayed by the unwillingness of her mind to open up to anything besides the beauty of gleaming firebrands. Soap's eyes flickered to the same picture, but quickly returned back to watch Karlach's face adorned with twitching spots of lighting and shadows, dancing to the music of their campfire and gentle wind. It suited her red skin and demonic features, but she still looked kind. To him, she looked kind even splattered with blood, someone's torn out rib clutched in hand, chest heaving with rage and flames of her engine spreading black charcoal spots on the ground.

With a blink, his gaze shifted down, following the simple train of thought and lingering on her chest - it's not like Johnny's been shy about checking her out at any previous time. Or like anyone here was shy about anything (except for vital information that every fucking one of these weirdos kept to themselves. that goddamn wizard and his magic bomb...). But at the same moment as Soap's eyes landed on the generously showing skin, Karlach sighed, breathed in deeply and then let out a calm breath full of peace and contentment. Her engine's glow brightened up just a little and then went back to previous state, highlighting dark silouette of her ribcage with a soft sparkle on each breath.

"Everything here is pretty as a picture. Even the fire looks different. I missed it, you know?" He didn't expect her to continue and looked up at her face for a moment, just to see that she's still looking into the fire reflected in her cat-like eyes and allow his gaze to fall back onto the mysterious gleam of her engine. It looked captivating, calling to reach out and touch, not in a way that a bonnie lass's rack can be, but similar to a mythical Spunkie lurking somewhere in the mist over deadly swamps in fae lands. Karlach's light was just as appealing and just as dangerous as a will-o'-the-wisp or a fresh out of fire coal. Yet she probably missed them too. Missed the sun and the grass just as much as some of the deadly creatures hunting in the forests and enemies that didn't reek of sulfur. Must've missed the heat of a friendly campfire and its coals too. After all, he missed his home too, no matter how magical this world was, he would've never turn down an opportunity to go back home, even though home was war, bloodshed and cities choking on the face of a planet still drowning in animosity. Would he?.. "They're shiny, like stars. Beautiful, isn't it? The world is so... beautiful."

"Aye," Soap agreed, not even looking another time at the coals that Karlach pointed out. She didn't notice, of course, neither the enchanted look on Johnny's face as he watched her engine dance in her heartbeat's place, nor the way her tail desperately wanted to wrap itself at least around Soap's ankle and couldn't. He might've not seen it himself, only feeling warmer and warmer, the heat coming not from an almost dead campfire but from the bulky red figure next to him. The one he kept his eyes on this whole time. "Beautiful, it is."

As a raging ADHD haver I cannot stress how hypnotic smouldering coals are to me. It might seem like it's all the same picture, but it just grabs your eyes and does not let them wander even if you want to. It clears all the chaos in my head out, absolutely empty bliss. Too bad it clears even things I gotta keep in mind... (i might've gone to cook something on open fire with my mum recently and almost burnt our food cuz i couldn't stop staring at the pretty coal go twinkle twinkle...)

Also, if you enjoyed my writing and/or the pairing, reblogs are very appreciated. As well as likes! I have shipped quite a lot of rarepairs and posted them on different platforms, and Tumblr has been the kindest to me and my weird brain. I appreciate y'all very much and feel here better than anywhere on the internet. English is not my first language and I don't have patience to proofread things properly, so corrections and critisism are appreciated too!