#and he played around with book restoration for a while when he was in his early 30s Tumblr posts

[connabeth]

the liberty annabeth has been given to be deeply unserious and true to her character in the new “pjo” books while being deprived of that aspect of her character elsewhere is so personal to me because what do you mean she wants to duet with percy on shallow, cheerfully bon voyages her boyfriend off a cliff, carries around a backpack of mystery mouskatools including herbal tea and snake treats just in case, instructs percy “don’t stop skipping, skippy” when he has the rainbow staff for absolutely no other reason aside from shits and giggles, breaks into his bedroom for no reason besides the fact that she simply likes the challenge, apparently regularly signs autographs and is fawned over up on olympus, and keeps suggesting cute and dumb shit to get magically scribed into percy’s diy college rec letter. and now she’s giggling with her architecture friends about glass and marshmallows and wants to throw a haunted house party in a scary goddess’s mansion (a goddess scary enough to make her boyfriend literally piss his boxers) because she’s too self-assured to believe they can’t evade the consequences and too excited to experience something she’s never gotten to throughout her childhood and adolescence. not to mention the callback to her love of animals, no matter how demonic, and how she misses playing fetch with cerberus…oh annabeth chase, the woman that you are. like yes let her be impulsive and unserious and excited and batshit and a troll because she’s just a girl trying to have fun in a miserable fucking world godammit!! rick riordan, they could never make me like you, but i’ll give you this one thing—the whimsy has been restored and its name is annabeth chase

[morganxwritess]

⋆｡°✩ 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭.

carlos sainz x leclerc!fem!reader

summary: while scrolling through insta in the middle of the night, you come across carlos’s most recent post, stirring unexpected feelings within you warnings: smut ahead, 18+ mdni, cute fluffy smut, quickie in the middle of the night, p in v sex, slight somnophilia (barely any!) note: i love F1!!! typically, im a charles girlie, but recently carlos has had me some type of way. the photos he posted on insta before silverstone had me weak and were major inspo for this! forza ferrari sempre <3 word count: 3.0k

Mindlessly scrolling on your phone, you felt your brain slowly surrendering to the sweet embrace of sleep, which you desperately craved. Silverstone was just around the corner, promising a whirlwind of media frenzy. As a Ferrari photographer, you knew you needed every ounce of rest to capture the perfect shots. You could almost hear the roar of engines and feel the anticipation in the air, but for now, all you wanted was to drift into a deep, restorative slumber, preparing yourself to deliver your finest work under the demanding spotlight of the weekend ahead.

That is, until you stumbled upon his most recent post. 

Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped slightly as you gawked at the photos from Carlos's new Instagram update. He had never looked more handsome, and that was saying something, considering you'd seen him all sweaty and shirtless post-race. The images were captivating, each one showcasing his chiseled features and smoldering charisma. Suddenly, sleep was the last thing on your mind as you stared at the screen, your heart racing as fast as the car he'd be driving at Silverstone.

Placing your phone on the bedside table of a hotel room that wasn't yours, you rolled over in bed to face the man who had stirred such excitement within you. There he was, fast asleep with one arm tucked under his head, catching the tiniest bit of drool that dribbled from his mouth. His other arm rested lazily around your hip, holding you close. A soft smile crept onto your face as you watched him, his usual polished image replaced by this endearing, unguarded moment. For a brief second, all thoughts of the upcoming weekend faded away, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the quiet comfort of being wrapped in his embrace.

As you nestled closer, your mind wandered back to the whirlwind of events that led you here, to this intimate moment in a foreign hotel room. The thrill of a race, the pressure of the media, and the electric chemistry that had sparked between you and Carlos.

You remembered the stolen glances across the paddock, the secret smiles, and the way his hand had lingered on yours just a little too long when passing a camera. Tonight had been different though, tonight had felt almost natural, like a routine. You had booked a room on the same floor as his, waited until you knew Charles was either asleep or preoccupied, and then you had joined him, planning on staying there until the morning.

You would slip out before your brother noticed you were missing and with his teammate. It was a risky game you played, but the thrill of it only added to the intensity of your connection with Carlos. You could almost hear Charles’s voice in your head, cautioning you about the complications of mixing personal and professional lives, but at this moment, those warnings seemed distant and insignificant.

"Carlos?" you whispered, trying to gain his attention, but the large man enveloping you in his arms did not move an inch. You gently shook his shoulder, hoping to rouse him without causing too much disturbance.

"Carlos," you repeated, a bit louder this time. He stirred slightly, his grip around your waist tightening, but still he remained asleep.

Too impatient to wait for him to wake up, and knowing this would be the perfect medicine to get you to sleep, you began slowly kissing up his bare chest. Your lips brushed against his warm skin, planting gentle kisses as you made your way upward, feeling his muscles react to your touch. You slowly made your way up his neck and to his jaw, kissing and biting down softly against the spot you knew drove him mad. A low, soft groan escaped his mouth, encouraging your movements. His breathing grew heavier as your lips continued their teasing path, each kiss and nip igniting a spark of desire.

"Carlos," you whispered against his skin, your voice barely audible but filled with longing. He shifted slightly, his grip on your waist tightening as he began to wake.

"You're relentless, mi corazón," he murmured, his voice a mix of amusement and arousal. His eyes flickered open, dark and intense, meeting yours with a smoldering gaze.

"And you love it," you teased, your lips brushing against his ear. He responded with a deeper groan, his hand moving up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

"You're right," he admitted, his voice husky. "I do."

You smiled, feeling a rush of satisfaction as you continued your ministrations, your kisses growing more insistent. His reactions spurred you on, his body responding to every touch, every kiss. The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this stolen moment of intimacy.

"You're going to drive me crazy," he whispered, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roamed over your body, drawing you even closer, “What has made you so needy? Were the three orgasms earlier not enough?”

“You,” you gasped as he shifted you so you were sitting on top of his hard erection. He pulled you down, devouring your lips with his own, your tongues battling for dominance. You pulled away, your breath coming in soft pants, and admitted, “I saw your new Instagram post. The one of you in the blue.”

One of his dark, thick eyebrows skyrockets in amusement. "Mi corazón, you took those photos."

"I know," you replied, a hint of sheepishness in your voice, "But I didn’t edit them or really look at them much after I sent them to your team. I didn’t realize how sexy you looked in them, or I would’ve kept them for myself."

He chuckled softly, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your hips. "You know you'll always have me all to yourself. Besides, the world may have seen those pictures, but they didn't see what happened after."

His voice held a hint of playful mischief, and you couldn't help but smile at his teasing tone. "And what did happen after?" you asked, your voice filled with mock curiosity, pretending to forget that unforgettable night.

"Well, if you forgot, maybe I should remind you," he stated, diving in to capture your lips again. His kiss was passionate and insistent, rekindling the fire of that unforgettable night.

You sat on his lap as he devoured your lips with his own. Getting lost in the sensation, you began rocking against him, your movements slow and deliberate. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, his touch sending shivers down your spine. Each kiss deepened, growing more fervent as your bodies moved in sync, the intensity of the moment overwhelming your senses.

As the kiss deepened, you could feel the intensity between you both growing, making it impossible to think about anything else. Carlos's hands roamed your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your breaths mingled, the room filled with the sound of your shared passion.

His lips left yours, trailing down your neck, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. "You are so beautiful, mi corazón," he murmured against your collarbone, his voice a rough whisper.

"Don’t stop," you replied, your own voice breathless and filled with desire.

His hands moved lower, slipping beneath your shirt, which actually belonged to him, caressing the bare skin of your back. You arched into his touch, your head falling back as he continued to explore your body with his mouth and hands. Time seemed to blur as you lost yourselves in each other. The worries of the outside world faded away, replaced by the overwhelming need to be together, to savor every moment. 

Carlos shifted slightly, laying you down on the bed, his body hovering over yours. His eyes, dark with desire, locked onto yours, silently asking for permission. You nodded, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, pulling him down to meet you in another searing kiss.

In that moment, nothing else existed but the two of you, wrapped in each other's arms, lost in the passion and connection that only seemed to grow stronger with every touch, every kiss.

You reached for his tight boxers that hugged his hips and showcased every inch of him, pulling them down to let his large length spring free. He helped, pushing them down the rest of the way until they fell off his legs, never moving his lips from yours for a moment.

His hands returned to your hips, gripping you firmly as he deepened the kiss, his need for you evident in every touch. Your own hands explored the newly exposed skin, reveling in the heat and strength of his body.

Too impatient to wait for another moment, Carlos grabbed the red lace underwear that covered what was his and ripped it down the middle, exposing your most intimate area.

"I liked that pair," you pouted, objecting breathlessly.

"I'll buy you ten more just like it," he growled, his voice filled with raw desire. "Whatever you want. I just have to have you."

His urgency was contagious, sending a thrill through your body. Before you could respond, he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locked onto yours with a fierce intensity.

In one swift motion, he thrust into you, filling you completely. The sensation was electric, and you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

Then he began to move, his rhythm relentless and demanding, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. His hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly as he drove deeper, his need for you palpable in every motion.

Your bodies moved together in perfect harmony, the room filled with the sounds of your shared passion. You could feel the tension building, the pressure mounting with each powerful thrust. Carlos's lips found yours again, his kiss searing and desperate, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"You're mine," he murmured against your lips, his voice a husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

"Yes," you gasped, your own need spiraling out of control. "All yours."

As the pace quickened, you felt the familiar build of ecstasy, your body tensing in anticipation. Carlos's movements grew more urgent, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered sweet nothings in Spanish, the sound of his voice pushing you closer to the brink.

With a final, powerful thrust, you both tumbled over the edge, lost in the waves of pleasure that crashed over you. Your cries of ecstasy mingled, echoing in the room as you clung to each other, riding out the intense high together.

Afterwards, you collapsed against him, your bodies entwined, hearts pounding in unison. Carlos's breath was hot against your skin as you both lay there, basking in the aftermath of your passion. The soft glow of the moonlight light filtered through the curtains, casting a small shadow over the room, making everything feel warm and surreal.

Carlos gently stroked your hair, his touch tender and soothing. "I could stay like this forever," he whispered, his voice filled with contentment.

You smiled, nuzzling closer to him. "Me too."

As you lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, the reality of your situation began to creep back in. The world outside was waiting, with its demands and expectations. But in this moment, you were just two people, lost in each other, savoring the connection you had found.

"Do you think Charles suspects anything?" you asked, a hint of worry creeping into your voice.

Carlos chuckled softly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. "If he does, he hasn't said anything. But we should be careful. For now, let's just enjoy this."

You nodded, your worries momentarily pushed aside. "Agreed."

The rest of the night drifted by in a haze of shared touches and whispered words. Eventually, the warmth and comfort of Carlos's embrace lulled you both into a peaceful sleep. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving just the two of you in your bubble of blissful contentment.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

You were jolted awake by the insistent pounding on the hotel room door. Groggy and disoriented, you glanced at the clock on the bedside table, realizing with a start that you had overslept. Carlos stirred beside you, muttering something under his breath as he tried to wake up.

The pounding continued, accompanied by a familiar voice calling out, "Carlos? Are you in there? We need to get going!"

Your heart leaped into your throat as you recognized Charles's voice. Panic set in as you quickly disentangled yourself from Carlos and scrambled to find your clothes.

"Carlos, wake up!" you whispered urgently, shaking him awake. "It's Charles! He's at the door!"

Carlos's eyes flew open, and he quickly assessed the situation. "Mierda" he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

You both moved quickly, trying to make the room look as if nothing had happened. You carefully slipped into the bathroom to hide, your heart pounding in your chest. Carlos pulled on his boxers and a pair of jeans, trying to appear as casual as possible.

The pounding on the door grew louder. "Carlos, come on! We need to leave now!"

Carlos took a deep breath and opened the door, blocking Charles's view of the room. "Sorry, I overslept. Give me a minute to get ready."

Charles looked past Carlos into the room, suspicion etched on his face. "Is someone else in there?"

Carlos's heart raced, but he maintained his composure. "No, just me. I had a rough night and crashed hard."

Charles raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Well, hurry up. We're on a tight schedule. I’m going to wait in the car." He turned on his heel and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Carlos let out a sigh of relief, running a hand through his tousled hair. "That was too close," he muttered, glancing over at you with a wry smile.

You couldn't help but chuckle, the adrenaline of the close call making your heart race. "Yeah, no kidding. We better get moving."

Quickly, you both scrambled around the room and started getting dressed, the urgency of the situation replacing the earlier tenderness. Carlos handed you your clothes, a playful glint in his eye despite the circumstances.

"You owe me a new pair of underwear," you teased, taking off his shirt and slipping on your own.

"I told you I'll buy you ten more," he promised, leaning in for a quick, stolen kiss. "But right now, we need to get out of here."

You both hurriedly finished dressing, the thought of Charles waiting in the car for you both spurring you on. As you grabbed your things, you couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all – sneaking around, stolen moments, and now this mad dash to avoid your brother's suspicion.

Carlos opened the door, peeking out to make sure the coast was clear. "All set?"

You nodded, taking a deep breath. "Let's go."

Together, you made your way down the hallway, the echoes of your footsteps blending with the thudding of your heart. The thrill of the secret, the rush of almost being caught, it all added to the intensity of your relationship with Carlos.

As you reached the lobby, you saw Charles waiting near the exit, his impatient figure visible from a mile away. Carlos gave your hand a quick squeeze before you both stepped out, trying to act casual.

Charles glanced up as you approached, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I’ve been calling you, Y/N. Why didn’t you pick up?"

“Phone died, and I forgot a charger.” You lied, seamlessly as you followed your brother out of the hotel and onto the street where a car was waiting for you.

You slid into the backseat next to Charles, Carlos taking the passenger seat up front next to the driver. As the car pulled away, you caught Carlos's eye in the rearview mirror. He winked at you, a silent promise of more stolen moments to come.

Attempting to hide your blush, you looked down at your lap and opened your phone, forgetting the lie you had just told Charles. When the screen lit up, the first thing you saw were the photos that had caused the delay—Carlos in that striking blue button-up. You couldn't help but hide your smile with a smirk, quickly turning your phone over to keep your emotions in check.

"I thought you just said your phone was dead?" Charles asked, his confusion evident.

Carlos snickered in the front seat, clearly enjoying your predicament. You stuttered out, "Maybe I was just ignoring you."

Charles raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Carlos. "Right. Well, let's just focus on getting to the track on time."

You nodded, grateful that he didn't press the issue further. The rest of the drive was filled with a tense silence, the only sounds being the hum of the engine and the occasional comment from Charles about the schedule for the day.

Carlos occasionally glanced back at you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. You could feel your blush deepening, but you managed to keep your composure. The memory of the night’s events and the photos on your phone lingered in your mind, adding a secret thrill to the day ahead.

As you pulled up to the track, the familiar roar of engines and the buzz of activity greeted you. The tension from the morning began to dissipate, replaced by the excitement of the race weekend. The driver parked the car, and you all climbed out, ready to dive into the day's work.

Carlos leaned in close as you walked toward the paddock, his voice low and teasing. "Try not to get too distracted, mi corazón. We've got a busy day ahead."

You shot him a playful glare, but couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at your lips. "You too, mon ange. Focus on the race."

He grinned, giving you a quick nod before heading off in his own direction. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the day ahead. Despite the early morning chaos, you felt a renewed sense of energy and determination. This race weekend was going to be unforgettable, both on and off the track.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Stuck

~1.5k words || rating: teen || cws: dissociation; unlabeled neurodivergencies and mental illnesses

He’s never quite sure how it happens, seeming to always sneak up on him. One minute he’s up and moving around, usually cleaning, organizing, or just meandering around the house. The next, he’s lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. He tries to move but can’t. Not because he’s physically restrained, like when the rope from the Russians cut into his wrists or how the vines constricted his neck. 

No, Steve’s just lying here on the floor, trapped in his own mind. His eyes are raw, stinging with dryness. Painful tingles pop throughout his right arm from where his head rests heavy on his bicep. His hip and shoulder ache. He can’t move or talk or blink. Can barely think. He’s not in his body. 

He’s lost. Stuck.

Getting stuck means losing time, chunks of days lost to a void. It means missing meals and unanswered phone calls. Growing up, it felt like an escape. A safe way to pass the time between eating and sleeping. He’d come back to himself, sometimes hours later, sore and hungry, mustering up energy he didn’t have. Once, his parents discovered him frozen on the ground. Mom’s yelling and Dad’s foot shoving his side brought him jolting back into his body. Like waking from a nightmare, rising from the dead chased by panic. 

It happens less now, but still catches up to him when he’s exhausted. He thinks today it was the kids– they were particularly obnoxious. Yelling excitedly about Eddie’s new campaign ideas, trucking in snow from outside after building a demo-snowman. Cooking for them, cleaning after them, getting them home safe.

Yeah, he gets how he maybe overdid it a bit. 

But with Eddie here, it’s easier. His sweetheart always knows how to help, usually checking up on him after stressful days. Hopefully he comes to check on him soon.

Because Steve can’t move. Or talk. Or even blink.

The sun is starting to set.

~~~

The Party were extra chaotic today, pushing him to the fringes of patience. He’s thrilled they’re excited about his newest campaign ideas, but god, did they have to be so unbearably loud about it? Dustin’s screeches are still rattling between his ears. Not to mention the soreness he feels from helping the kids build a snowman demo-thing and the ensuing snowball fight. 

The idea of an occult campaign has been percolating in Eddie’s brain for weeks, and after the day he’s had, he’s lost to the research. Perched on a chair upstairs in their bedroom, books are scattered across the desk and onto their bed next to him. Typically, creative deep-dives restore his energy after a long day. But when he’s well and truly exhausted, he’ll lose hours at a time to the work. Getting stuck, according to Steve. And yeah, Eddie can see how that fits.

Growing up, Eddie would lose hours throwing himself into his latest and greatest project, whether it be drawing, playing guitar, writing campaigns, reading or even the time he tried juggling. Entranced by his newest obsession, his surroundings would fade into the background. He’d forget to do his homework, to eat or drink. Hell, sometimes he’d forget to pee. Wayne’d drop a gentle hand to his shoulder– pulling him back to reality– and he’d take off like a shot to the bathroom. Every sensation hitting all at once: bladder about to burst, stomach rumbling, dry mouth, headache, body stiff and achy. 

As he gets older, it’s still a frequent occurrence. So Robin had given him the idea of setting alarms, saying it helps her remember to take breaks while studying. And he’s thankful, because it works like a charm when he actually remembers. But when he forgets, his Stevie takes care of him. 

He’ll find Eddie crouched awkwardly by the desk, eyes manic, only seeing what’s in front of him. Eddie will eat or drink anything Steve gives him, barely tasting whatever it is, just as long as he can see it. And Steve lets him be for at least a few hours so he can burn energy into whatever project he's lost himself in. All Steve cares is that he’s fed and hydrated. Usually, Eddie comes to slowly, with Steve’s fingers gently carding through his hair, or soft strokes up and down his spine.

Now Eddie breaks his own musings, eyes strained, hungry, and needing to stretch. He can’t help but wonder why his sweetheart hasn’t checked on him. 

Moonlight is shining through the window.

~~~

It’s eerily quiet as Eddie makes his way down the stairs. He half expects to find Steve stress-baking, but the kitchen is dark. 

So he checks the garage– the car is still here. And the backyard– he never sits by the pool alone. Then the front porch– maybe he went out for a smoke.

Guilt eats at Eddie as he finds his beautiful boy on the living room floor, curled into himself.

Stuck. 

He hates finding Steve like this– stuck and lost like Eddie’s engrossed fantasies. Yet so, so different. 

The first time Eddie found him, unresponsive and immovable, he spiraled into a panic so strong Steve had broken free of his own melancholy, finding Eddie hyperventilating and sobbing in the midst of a flashback. Too much like Chrissy. Like Patrick and Nancy. 

They'd talked about it. And Eddie had appreciated afterwards how Steve struggled to describe what being stuck feels like, why it happens, what to do about it. It'd helped. 

So on grey days, long nights, the holidays, or when the kids are extra rowdy, Eddie looks for the signs. He's been good about getting Steve to slow down before it's too late. 

But on rare occasions, there will be a day like today. When it’s too much for both of them.

Eddie doesn't know how long his baby’s been lying here. Doesn't know when he ate or drank or even blinked. Because he’d holed himself up, desperate for time alone to just think. To be with himself after spending all day surrounded by people. But he forgot to set an alarm, assuming Steve would be there.

He focuses on his sweetheart, slowly kneeling down next to him so as not to startle him. Remembers all of the tips and tricks Steve needs. 

"Hey honey," Eddie whispers, close enough to be present but not overwhelming. "Don't worry baby we'll get you unstuck I promise. I'm going to reach out and grab your hand now ok?" 

He continues to whisper gentle praises and reassurances as he holds Steve's hand. It's limp for a time, and Eddie is hungry, but he doesn't stop. Time is lost to them both again, until he feels a slight squeeze on his fingers. Steve finally blinks, slow and hard. 

"Hey big boy, love to see those pretty, long eyelashes.” He smiles down at his baby, honeyed hazel eyes slowly refocusing. “Alright, once for no and two for yes: do you want me to help you onto the couch?" 

A full minute passes before Eddie feels two gentle squeezes to his fingers. 

"That's great sweetheart. I'm gonna tilt you to sit up and we'll get you settled. Then I'm going to ask if you want anything. Ready?" Two squeezes.

They finally get to the couch, and Eddie can already feel a strong sense of relief at just seeing his baby move off the floor. He hears Steve's back pop as they stand, decides he'll give him a massage later. 

It goes on. And on and on. Eddie follows the process of squeezes until Steve is unstuck and back in his body. 

"Water?" Two squeezes.

"Food?" One squeeze.

"Blanket?" Two squeezes. 

Eddie's patience always pays off. He's got Steve set up on the couch, hydrated and relaxed, with his favorite movie playing softly. He’s managed to grab a bowl of cereal for himself. They're cuddled and warm with Steve’s head in his lap. Eddie glides his fingers up and down the sore side of Steve’s body, gently squeezing as he goes.

~~~

Steve comes back to himself surrounded by love. 

His eyes sting and his mouth is dry. He doesn't know what time it is, but notices the sun has long set, moonlight shining through the curtains. The bones in his neck crack and his joints pop as he stretches.

But he's warm under the blankets, tucked into his boyfriend's chest as they watch the teddy bear Star Wars. Eddie's loosely twirling the hairs at the nape of his neck, lightly tugging and sending tingles down his spine. There's a glass of water and crackers on the table in front of him. 

Getting stuck inside his head terrifies him, something he dreads as much as the night terrors. 

But with Eddie, it's easier, happens less often. And when it does, he always wakes up to love.

~~

This was a pure self-indulgence fic. An exact recreation of my relationship with my partner. It fits my headcanon for the boys perfectly (though I'm obviously biased haha)

[writingjourney]

Heavens Away | Secondo x f!Reader

For a brief moment he feels like he’s standing in the chapel, gazing into the face of Lilith on the triptych, envying the serpent that is intimately wrapped around her body. He would worship you, he thinks, in much the same way.

Content: 2.8k words, f!reader, smut (breast play, dry humping, kissing, marking, praise, oral sex m receiving, p in v sex, soft dominance, couch sex, unprotected), some affectionate and loving Secondo smut ♡  – 18+, MDNI

Masterlist – Ao3 link

He watches you for a time-stopping moment – the frame is frozen, the video on pause, the clock ticking in a vacuum. He is the visitor in a museum of fine arts who stops in front of a painting to admire. The scene is simple. You sit by the window in nothing but a loose shirt, the evening sunlight illuminating your head like a halo – an angel dipped in liquid gold. The book you’re reading is one of his, a restored early edition of Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, and you handle it with the care of a mother cradling her child.

Perhaps you notice his attention. The frames start moving again as your head turns in his direction. And then you smile. He can’t bring himself to look away, even though he knows it will eventually disturb the view. If the sunlight is warm, it holds nothing to the warmth in your gaze.

As expected you close the book and delicately place it on the armchair as you rise. He watches your figure as it crosses the room, so familiar to his eyes and hands, yet never losing the charm of novelty. You stop where he has reclined comfortably on the sofa and his eyes are drawn upwards to meet yours, the scene changing into a new composition. For a brief moment he feels like he’s standing in the chapel, gazing into the face of Lilith on the triptych, envying the serpent that is intimately wrapped around her body. He would worship you, he thinks, in much the same way.

You reach out with cautious hands, cradling his head as softly as the book, like he is precious beyond any measurable worth. Secondo can’t resist the temptation any longer, wondering if you are the serpent after all. He pulls you down into his lap, face pressed against yours so firmly that you can feel the outline of his nose in your cheek. You wrap your arms around him for support, giggling slightly when he drags his lips over the sensitive spot below your ear. He inhales the sound like he inhales your scent, then exhales in warm huffs against your tender throat.

“You smell divine, my dove.” He nuzzles you again, slowly this time, then hums in delight. “My favorite scent.”

You move your hands back to his head, gently scratching and massaging his scalp. “You’re very affectionate today.”

His lips ghost over your jaw. “Is that so bad?”

Right when you open your mouth to answer he sucks on your skin and you gasp, squirming on his thighs to try and calm your growing need. His hands settle on your hips in a firm grip, keeping you steady as his wet lips trail further down. “N-No.”

“You taste divine too,” he mumbles, unimpressed by your reaction. “So good for me, so very good for your Papa.”

“Seco–” 

You trail off when his lips attach to your neck, sucking roughly. You cling to his shoulder, his neck, anywhere you can reach, moaning as you feel lustful shivers running down your spine. For a while you get lost under his ministrations, all your love for him so very palpable when he touches you like this. His teeth nibble your skin, his tongue soothing over the spot before he sucks yet again, so hard you wonder if he’s trying to absorb you, suck you into him. Desperately aching for him, you attempt to move your hips against his, to feel more of him, but his grip is too firm. With his mouth so insistent, your skin soon starts to burn, then properly ache. Maybe he’s already broken it, licking up your blood without faltering.

“Papa, it h-hurts,” you whimper.

He breaks away slightly. “Does it?”

“Hm, lots.”

“Mi scusi, amore, I get a little… carried away. You forgive me, sì?”

“Mhm.”

You’d forgive him anything, you both know this, especially when he calls you amore. The corners of his mouth spread against your neck as they form a loving smile. His lips tenderly move over the abused spot, a featherlight kiss that sends goosebumps over your skin, leaving a wet mark that feels cool as he breaks away.

“Better, yes?”

You smile as you gaze into his shimmering mismatched eyes, then at his mouth that is all messy and blotched. “Yes, better.”

“Give your Papa a proper kiss now, hm?”

Your lips meet his in a silent gasp, remains of his make-up mixing with your spit and leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. His kisses are always deliberate, even in your daily life. He never kisses in passing but sacrifices a few precious seconds to linger, firm and intimate, until you know he does not take even a fraction of you for granted.

There lies a certain pain in knowing that someone wants your body but nothing more. That they love you enough to take your pleasure but not enough to help and carry the weight of your soul. This is not what being with Secondo feels like. He is slowly, carefully peeling the outer layers from your heart, reaching into the depths of your desires beyond just the carnal lust you both share. Every kiss and touch caress parts of you that you kept protected for so long that you forgot they existed. You think, you hope, that you are doing the same for him.

You break the kiss for a sigh when his hands push underneath the shirt that is draped over your body, unbuttoned and falling open as soon as his hands move upwards to cup your breasts – his shirt, really, that you wrapped around your shoulders earlier that evening. Your skin is soft as he feels the weight of them, gently kneading the supple flesh and circling your nipples with his thumbs. Secondo kisses you again when you arch into his touch, swallowing the whimpers and moans his deft fingers draw from you. You’re free to roll your hips now and you take advantage of your position. He can’t fight off a groan when he feels the outlines of your cunt grinding down on his cock, slicking your underwear as well as his pants.

“I want you in my mouth,” you whisper. “Please.”

He has never been able to deny you the pleasure of tasting him, no matter how fast it usually brings him to his release, seeing that you are always so eager to please him. When he looks into your eyes now, filled with need and devotion, he swallows against a dry throat. 

“Ask me again,” he says. “Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please, let me taste you. Let me feel your weight on my tongue, Papa. I crave you.”

He gives a nod and you break away to settle between his legs on the floor, thighs tightly pressed together. His arms have spread over the back of the sofa and he shifts his hips forward to grant you better access, bracing you between his strong thighs. With the same deft, cautious fingers you open the buckle of his belt, feeling your own wetness on his crotch as you pull down the zipper of his slacks. He is beautifully hard and Secondo gives a relieved sigh when you pull his cock from its restraints. You immediately nuzzle it, pressing your cheek against his hot, leaking member.

“You are an infernal sight,” he comments. “A paragon of lust and devotion.”

You smile and rub your face against his cock, looking up to meet his intense gaze. His eyes are focused on you as he brings his hand to your other cheek, so tenderly that it draws a sigh from you. You lean in to kiss his abdomen, pressing more soft kisses around his cock, the tender skin where it meets his body, down his length, never losing sight of him. His skin tastes salty and his dark pubic hair tickles your nose as you kiss down to his balls. The hand on your cheek fully cups you now, his thumb pressing just below your eye, and you smile up at him.

“Are you teasing your Papa?” Secondo asks, swallowing hard in his visible strain.

“No,” you assure him with a kiss to the underside of his shaft. “I am loving my Papa.”

His lips part but before he can say anything, you close your lips around his tip and distort his words into a low groan. Instead of forcing you to go faster, he allows you to set a languid pace, breaking away to kiss his hooded tip every so often while his hand gently combs through your hair. You take your time, looking up at him with big, hopeful eyes, trying to show him exactly how much you appreciate him. You don’t need him to be strong and perfect all the time. You want him to let go of his social constraints and allow himself to just be when he’s with you – your partner, your lover, the Papa of your very own church.

His breathing becomes more erratic when you take him deeper, caressing him with your tongue and hollowing your cheeks. You can feel his thighs flexing at your sides and you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, never losing sight of him. His eyes stay on yours as well, even as his eyelids begin to flutter from the stimulation. His hand tightens in your hair but he doesn’t exert any force, just holds you, massaging your scalp encouragingly.

“Amore,” he warns when he’s getting close. “Come up here, per favore. I want to feel your skin on mine.”

You break away, leaving him wet and achingly hard as you climb back into his lap. He urges you out of your garments, then pushes his pants fully down while you work open the buttons on his own shirt. He’s meticulous and before long you have your hands on his solid chest, caressing the dark curly hair that runs all over his body.

“I want you, Papa,” you whisper, kissing him again with an eager, open mouth.

Secondo allows you to grind down on his cock, the wetness between your legs easing the movement as he glides between your folds. You moan into each other’s mouths at the sensation and he pulls you close, chest against chest, so perfectly intimate and warm.

When you break away from the kiss, he purrs. “You have pleased your Papa, I think it is time that he pleases you, hm?”

His hands firmly grip your hips again, denting the soft flesh as he moves you to lie flat on your back. The sofa gives a squeak when he settles between your legs, spreading them as wide as the narrow surface allows. This is not his ideal spot in your quarters, he prefers to have space, to take his time with you to give you the attention you deserve. Right now, however, he is too stunned by the sight of you sprawled out underneath him with the evening sun still dipping your curves into its orange light. He remembers his silent promise to worship you and so he lets his lips caress every inch of your body he can reach.

He begins at the bruising spot on your neck. Already you squirm, trying to guide his mouth further down, and so he gathers your hands to pin them over your head. He has taught you patience over the time you’ve been together but he can never quite tame your eagerness. Not that he earnestly wants to.

“Ssh,” he says. “It is my turn to love you now.”

The deep breath you take at his words vibrates under his mouth as he kisses your sternum. You shiver, goosebumps spreading underneath his lips. Secondo gives himself another few minutes, covering your chest in kisses, leaving a few deep red marks in the most prominent spots.

“Please,” you whisper, your wrists fighting against his strong grip.

He does not let go, instead he brings his lips back to yours, pushing his tongue inside the cavity of your mouth and delving as deep as you allow. Your hips buck and he presses you down with his full weight, plundering your mouth until your lips are swollen. His free hand moves between your bodies, ghosting over your mound until his fingers graze your clit. You gasp at the contact, closing your eyes as they lose their focus. He aligns his cock with your entrance, teasing you both by dragging his tip along your slit and lightly dipping inside.

“Oh, Papa.”

Secondo stills and circles your aching, swollen clit, drawing whimpers and deep lustful sounds from your throat with every rotation. Your moans are his favorite gospel, your breathy words the most devoted prayer he has ever heard. Again, your arms resist as you shift beneath his grasp, rolling your hips into his touch in your search for more.

“Papa,” you whisper, voice laced with complaint.

“You want to touch me, amore?” he asks, tightening his grip on your wrists.

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm, will you beg for me? You know how I love it when you do.”

“Papa,” you repeat, squirming impatiently in his hold. “Papa, please. I want to touch you.”

He doesn’t let go but looks down at you with a loving glimmer in his eyes that speaks more than any confession ever could. He looks vulnerable and for a drawn-out moment you just look at each other, no words necessary when your eyes meet. His lips part and the last traces of his resistance slowly melt away.

“Secondo,” you whisper now. “Please.”

He finally releases your wrists and then his whole face softens, the deep creases evening out until he’s smiling. You wrap your hands around his neck, refamiliarising yourself with the tenderness of his skin as your fingertips trace every single curve you can find. It’s the touch of a butterfly, tickling so softly that it takes his breath away.

“Amore, you have already touched me,” he says, a shimmer glossing over his eyes, tears or a trick of the light, you’re not quite certain, “in so many ways.”

With that he finally pushes inside, dragging his cock slowly along your walls until your hips are flush and he can’t go any deeper. He fills you so perfectly, molding you around him to match his shape. Every roll of his hips is a revelation, every moan a promise of his unending devotion to you. You pull him closer until his full weight is resting on you and you can feel his warm skin on yours. Even though his thrusts are more shallow now they seem to fill you even more thoroughly, spreading pleasure in your whole body. Soon you clench around him, your hands grasping him tightly, and he grinds into you with more fervor.

“Come for me, my dove,” he whispers, grunting when he feels the tightness in his own body that announces his impending release. His thumb goes back to drawing circles over your clit. “Come for your Papa.”

You shudder, then the heat in your belly spreads in rippling waves as you fall over the edge, wrapping your legs around him to keep him as close as possible. Secondo stills for a moment, inhaling sharply when he feels you tightening around him, revelling in the sounds you make, the sensation of your body trembling underneath him with the intensity of your pleasure. All of his senses are attuned to you.

“Hm, so good for me,” he says, trying to hold back for a little longer. “S-so good.”

When you begin to come down from your high he continues to move, extending your pleasure. You gently stroke his neck, his back, caressing him as he approaches his own release. He can feel the love in your soft touches and his chest clenches, his heart stuttering just like his hips when he finally comes. He groans and buries his face in your neck as he spills heavily inside of you. He gives you all that he has, a few more shallow thrust to prolong the sensation. When he is spent, he rolls you onto your sides, keeping you close.

In the shared space, your breaths mingle, and he can’t help but nuzzle your nose, placing another soft, lingering kiss to your mouth.

“I love you, Secondo,” you whisper, still caressing the back of his head.

“And I love you, my dove,” he replies.

You smile and close your eyes but he can’t bring himself to stop looking at your relaxed, angelic face. If he had any talent he would paint you just like this, capture you basking in such deep bliss and preserve the sight for all of eternity. Instead he leans in to press two featherlight kisses to your eyelids, another one to your nose, then your lips, and traps the picture deep inside of his heart.

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

[seaofwine]

What do you like about the Odyssey? Besides some entertaining episodes (e.g. Circe or Calypso), I've never really been able to get into the Odyssey as a whole (I find the first 5 books especially dull). The Iliad really speaks to me more.

It's hard to really pinpoint what I like most about it but I love to talk about the Odyssey so I hope you like long posts hahaha

The first five books act as the exposition. When the Iliad ends, there's a general understanding that most of the surviving characters made it home. Menelaus and Helen have reunited, the catalyst for the Trojan War has been resolved. Agamemnon traversed the sea and made it back, and although he was killed by his wife Clytemnestra, there is no question about where he is; unlike Odysseus.

Telemachus has spent his entire youth without a father. When he finally decides to set out from Ithaca to find any leads on where Odysseus is, he is confronted with the fact that most everyone else has been accounted for. He sees Menelaus and Helen, the order of their kingdom, the comfort they have in each other and the bonds they have restored. Telemachus has known nothing but uncertainty, while his mother is forced to weave lies and deceptions to keep the suitors that plague their home at bay. The first five books really show how important one man can be when he is utterly lost, and what it would mean for everyone who loves him should he be found. These books also show the close interest that Athena, as patron of Odysseus, takes in his family. She steps into the chaos of Ithaca and gives Telemachus the inspiration to embark on his own journey, chasing the ghost of his still-living father.

When we finally reach Odysseus, he is not the same man that those who knew him in Troy described. They are the closest Telemachus can come to knowing what came of his father, but even they are separated by nearly a decade and the breadth of the sea. Penelope hasn't laid eyes on her husband in twenty years, there is no overestimating what that can do to a person's memory. Odysseus's first action is to cry. When finally Calypso is forced to allow Odysseus to leave, by order of Hermes, he makes his own raft and leaves at the first possible moment. He is fighting against the will of Poseidon, against the wrath he incurred, all alone. He has lost every single one of his men, every single person who could ever vouch for his identity, in a world where no one could recognize him, is gone. Despite this, he is still fighting to get back to Ithaca.

Odysseus is so utterly human in the text. When he is hosted by Alcinous, Odysseus asks the singer there to recount the story of the Trojan Horse. It's like landing at the doorstep of a stranger who graciously allows you to stay and immediately asking his DJ to play *your own* greatest hits - which in turn only upsets him. This also sets up the dramatic reveal of his identity (I like to imagine him looking around like, you guys remember this one? Yeah that's Me, I pinkie promise. Please give me 4000 drachmae and your best oarsmen (: ).

He recounts the story of how he got so utterly lost on the way back and one thing the Odyssey will tell you, to your face over and over again, is that Odysseus is a big time liar. But for some reason, his tale is so compelling it's hard to remind yourself of that when hearing it for the first time. Some points are so beyond baffling (like striking Polyphemus in the singular eye the poor sod has, and then once to the safety of his boat (which is on open water, the domain of said cyclops's father) loudly announcing his full gods-given name and mailing address, just in case anyone missed who it was) that it's like, yeah that was probably exactly what he did. This is the section of the story where we see Odysseus as he sees himself. This is his own reflection of the actions he made and the troubles that befell him because of it.

Odysseus is such a complex character that one of the epithets he is given is "polytropos", the many-faced or many-sided. Odysseus and his relationship to his own identity, which he can shed and don at any point that's convenient for him, is one of the main reasons I am obsessed with his story. This, and the exploration in an ancient text about what a close relationship with a deity, is something I am constantly thinking about.

[esperfruit]

Bonus facts for the characters in my TTTE Human AU Part 1

Thomas Billington:

Recently got his moped license, travels around Sodor on his moped whenever he can

British + Indian

Autism + ADHD

Asexual + Biromantic 

Edward's No. 1 hypeman

No sweets are save from him

Once got in an accident with a bike and was catapulted through a window onto a family’s breakfast table

Can't play instruments to save his life

Strong dislike for fish and gets seasick

Favorite shows are slapstick cartoons

Is surprised himself at how good he became at making friends with how bad he used to be in the past

Can get tunnel vision when too determined to get things done

Reads books about ancient civilizations, mythology and archeology to feel close to his missing parents

Stays in contact with Ashima

Edward Pettigrew:

His friend circle is so large, he always knows someone who can help out

British

Bisexual + Trans man

Classic music enthusiast 

Serious perfectionist

People pleaser but has a lot of confidence and self-respect

Often forgets basic needs when focused too hard on work (Annie, Clarabel and Thomas often have to remind him to eat)

Used to look after Henry when he was sick but over time was pushed away by Henry, who didn't want Edward's “pity”

Is called “Uncle Edward” by Thomas

Has very high expectations of himself thanks to his reputation as the ol'reliable

Was a troublemaker in his youth to the shock of everyone

Can adapt to any situation

Henry Stanier:

If you want to know anything regarding gardening, he got you covered

Puerto Rican

ADD + autism + anxiety + insomnia 

Pansexual + Bigender

Can be a massive hater when you get on his bad side

Actively participates in forest restorations 

Struggles with expressing of wanting sympathy for his condition but not to be pitied for it

Lived in New Jersey for a while and adapted the accent

Even if he mellowed out, he can still throw out some of the most rude things you've ever heard

Holds a grudge against Scott

Was Sodor's undefeated armwrestling champion for a long time until his defeat against Hiro

His orphanage didn't want to pay for his hospital bills anymore and he was given to the Staniers without them knowing about his anemia first

Uses the herbs he grows in his garden for medicine

Aside from chronic anemia, he has a weak immune system in general

Goes hiking for escapism 

Gets stressed whenever Spencer is around

Not many can tell whenever his smile is one of joy or warning

Gordon Gresley:

When he smiles his whole face changes

British

Gay

Autism + NPD + BPD

Gets very tense and nervous when confronted with sudden big change

Struggles at asking for help

It’s very difficult to get him to open up and especially to get him to talk about his feelings

Quick to judge others

Once led a strike with Henry and James, is embarrassed by it today

Gets very uncomfortable when his family is mentioned

Suffers from strong mood swings, it is hard to predict and adapt to him

Almost got ran over by Spencer’s car once (Spencer did it on purpose)

Never hides his schadenfreude

A glutton, gets flustered whenever it’s addressed

Has nightmares from the accident only he and Scott survived

His drawn out groans and “Oh, the indignity” line became famous

James Hughes:

Freaks out whenever some of his self-made outfits get dirty

British + Mexican

Gay

ADHD + NPD + anxiety 

Has a whole photo album with nothing but selfies

Becomes non-verbal when he feels humiliated 

Very observant, notices things others never would

All of his dishes look like they were made at a 5 stars restaurant

Is often seen posing over dramatically 

Good painter

Breaks out into boastful laughter whenever he’s praised

Constantly provokes Gordon to get his attention

Has a melancholic side

Percival “Percy” Avonside:

Is the local newspaper kid on his bike

British + Seychellois + Malaysian

ADHD

AroAce and non-binary

Wants to become a professional soccer player, trains with Donald

Didn't know how to swim for a long time until he got swimming lessons after almost drowning when he fell into the water at the harbor and was saved by Henry

Has some developmental delays because of the homeschooling and struggles with big words

Is often seen bantering with the helicopter pilot Harold Sikorsky

Gets very grumpy when bored

Superhero movie fan

Accident prone, is currently on his fifth bike 

Loves wearing the sweaters Henrietta made for him

Very good with animals

When he makes a promise, he does everything to keep it

Tobias “Toby” Holden:

Very strong attachment to Henrietta, is only seen without her at work

Black British

Straight ally

Neurotypical

Usually peaceful but will make you regret if you ever hurt Henrietta or Percy

Is easy to get to laugh at your jokes (except for Charlie, even Toby finds him unfunny)

Sweet tooth but not as extreme as Thomas

Henrietta can cheer him up instantly whenever he’s cross

Once stopped a burglar from robbing a museum and is now seen as a hero

Often invites Mavis for dinner with his family 

Owns many antiques 

Montague “Duck” Collett:

Amazing dancer, his favorite being waltz with Donald

British

Bisexual

Autism 

A typical old-fashioned gentleman despite his young age

Has high standards and gives harsh but honest criticism 

Does not swear at all, only when he's at his breaking point

Usually shrugs off duck jokes but will throw hands if you do that as one of his enemies (Diesel)

Habit of talking a lot when getting enthusiastic 

He and Douglas are the only ones to know how to handle Donald perfectly

Very musical, can play the piano, violin, acoustic guitar and flute 

Likes going to the coast, gets sentimental when watching the sunset there

Donald McIntosh:

Owns kilts he wears to festivities

Scottish

Gay

ADHD

Can not play the bagpipes

Fluent in Gaelic 

He and Douglas used to live in Hamilton but moved to Glasgow after being adopted by the McIntosh Family

Loves playing Scottish folk music at high volume (to the annoyance of many) 

Was the ace striker of his school’s soccer team 

Likes giving nicknames (Dougie, Ducky, Ollie, Hen-Hen, Gordo, Jamie, Ed, Thommy, Perce, Emi, Becca etc.)

Makes cute little hats for Dilly

Short-tempered and gets aggressive when someone is looking at Douglas the wrong way

Douglas McIntosh:

Owns kilts he wears to festivities

Scottish

Bisexual and non-binary

Autism + anxiety 

Can play the bagpipes

Fluent in Gaelic

Hates superstitions and anything related to the supernatural 

Learned how to cook for himself since he started to refuse to eat food from others except Donald and Oliver

Craves affection, only lets Donald and Oliver know

Proud of his heritage, both twins are but Douglas shows it more

Enjoys wearing feminine and masculine clothing equally 

Oliver Armstrong:

Best partner to go on walks with. Evening walks on the beach with Douglas are his favorite

British + Egyptian 

Pansexual

Autism + paranoia ( the latter caused by being hunted for years)

Loves learning about history and other cultures

Amazing cook, he and Douglas often exchange recipes 

Makes a lot of puns

Ego gets inflated quickly

Gives amazing hugs, Douglas can confirm

He and Toad give the best camping advice

Emily Stirling: 

Insecure in her femininity because of her headstrong personality and age

British + Vietnamese

Lesbian

Neurotypical

Sodor’s greatest mediator

When she has something to say, she will make sure you listen

Gordon and Scott’s father’s half sister, was sent to Scotland to get married off to the Stirlings after it came out she was an illegitimate child 

Her marriage was arranged, she did care for her late husband a lot and knew he was a good man but she did not love him

Only talks about her former marriage with Daisy and her closest friends

Learns baking from Henrietta

Likes teasing young people

She and Daisy often dress flashy for fun 

[captainnameless]

oh I’m in tears I’m sobbing I’m throwing up OVER MAMA SEB AND DANIEL. I love how seb and uncle lew just became one idk if that’s intended but in my head they’re co parenting. I am begging (if you’re up for it of courseeee!!!) for mama seb, Lewis and Danny. Unfortunately I have yet to recover from Singapore gp seeing DR like that so I need this like I need my meds 💔

aw! they’re such a treat to write, and i don’t mind the seb + lewis coparenting canon bc i love writing them two. so let’s crank up the coparenting in this one.

It’s an adorable sight, Daniel curled up under a blanket, face smushed into the soft carpet, surrounded by the abandoned toy cars he was playing with.

They may have slightly misjudged how tired the younger would be after his flight, growing suspicious when silence filled Lewis’ Monaco home, something that rarely happened when Daniel was there, and finding said Australian passed out.

Lewis had insisted they moved Daniel to the bedroom, or at least the couch, complaining about his back but Sebastian had shushed him, refusing to move the younger at risk of waking him and not getting him back down, arguing that a floor nap wouldn’t kill him.

Daniel wakes up while Lewis is out walking Roscoe, shows up at the edge of the couch, curls are over the place, eyes barely open.

“Daddy.”

Sebastian puts the book down he was reading, a soft smile on his face. “Uh oh, gotta rub the sleep out of your eyes, bubba. I’m not Daddy.”

A groany little whine leaves Daniel’s body, face scrunchy. “Mama,” Daniel starts. “Where Daddy?”

“Walking Roscoe, sweetheart. Which means Mama gets all the cuddles.”

The soft pout on Daniel’s face appears only for a little bit, apparently having an opinion on not being taken on the walk but forgotten quickly at the invitation to a cuddle, clambering into Sebastian’s lap with a soft little sigh.

“Good nap?” Sebastian asks, wrapping Daniel up and pressing a kiss into the messy curls.

“Mhmm,” Daniel hums, a soft yawn leaving his mouth, slowly waking up more cuddled into Seb.

Daniel’s just getting a bit squirmy when Lewis comes back home, entirely offended by Sebastian stealing all the cuddles.

“He’s a cuddle thief,” Lewis accuses when Daniel squirms out of Lewis’ hold after only a minute. “Stole them all so Daddy only gets one?”

Sebastian’s stupid little smug smile definitely doesn’t help, it pulls a giggle out of Daniel.

“Two!” Daniel says, wrapping his arms around Lewis for another quick second before he’s darting off, energy restored.

“Well bye?!” Lewis calls after him, gets a little wave in return as Daniel goes off to do God knows what.

“I hate you.” Lewis says, but is unable to keep the glare in his eyes as he looks at Seb.

“Lying will earn you a time out,” Sebastian hums, successfully dodging a pillow being thrown at him. “He asked for Daddy first thing when he woke up, if that makes you feel any better.”

Lewis smiles. “It does.”

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 2

Bruh. My back is HURTING from being hunched over my laptop lol. For some reason I've managed to shit out this next chapter at the speed of light, but I'm back at uni and deadlines are picking up so I can't guarantee another one for a couple weeks. ANYWAY - ALASTOR HAS FINALLY MADE AN APPEARANCE. Not in person yet, but he's here (in spirit). I also apologise to anyone not from Yorkshire, I've used some of our slang from there and it may not make sense, but MC's embracing her Northener crave for violence.

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 6800

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Descriptions of murder and dismemberment. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

PART 1: Chapter 2

Another box for my trinkets it's trinketville.

Meraki (Definition): To put something of yourself into your work. (Noun)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Thursday, 7th November, 1929.

The first four months of your new apprenticeship had you thriving more than ever before since arriving in the US. The last time you had felt this joyous and satisfied you were nearly eighteen, the tickle of the long grass on your cheeks as you laid in the meadow at the height of spring, holding the bunch of wildflowers against the kaleidoscopic swirls of the evening tones of the sky above you, admiring the way the lowering sun hit the petals and the small bugs that floated around with its golden highlights. It was one of the few times you had managed to bring your racing mind to a stand-still; no voices; no random lines of songs in your head playing on replay; no worries about the chores you were procrastinating or the book your friend had recommended weeks ago that you were yet to touch. You remembered the feeling of the summer dress you wore, the texture of the leather messenger bag beside you gifted by the old woman who lived further down the lane of the village. She used to babysit you when your parents would travel to York days at a time for work or personal errands. You loved to skip down that lane, with your hand running along the rough stones of the ancient stone walls that lined the lanes of your little village you had spent your whole life in – also lining your mind with the cuts it gave you as you tried to climb over them with the twins over the years.

The routine of working at the repair shop had brought the blissful feeling of stability back, the hectic frenzy of travelling from hotel room to hotel room, checking your tickets a thousand times to make sure you were on the correct train platform, then checking again. You no longer had to worry about travel dates that would leave you feeling paralysed from doing anything else.

Mr LeBlanc had been an excellent teacher and manager, drilling skills into your mind since you stepped into the shop for your starter shift. It was certainly an experience: opening the double doors to a vintage collector’s dream, an antique emporium filled from floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling). Ralph had brought you behind the counter, to a room in the back that he gleefully revealed to be concealed by a door disguised as a bookshelf. The workshop hidden behind was every antique restorer’s sanctuary, and it was certainly yours. Drawers lining the walls filled with every tool that could file, chip away, or apply anything you could find. In the centre was a large wooden table – thick, sturdy planks covered in chips and splatters of paint and adhesives used over the years. This table would be the place you would spend the next four months, your hair tied back by a patterned silk bandana, Ralph showing you how to work with materials from wood to porcelain, metal to textiles. You would pour over books you had pulled from Mr LeBlanc’s bookshelves until late into the evening, until he sent you home with them in your bag, and you protected them with your life as you returned on the trams (or ‘streetcars’, as Americans called them) in the evening light.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he taught you everything he could, and you absorbed it all at the speed of light, your mind soaking up every piece of information like a dry sponge. By month three you had been given the go ahead to work on your first object from a customer – a small, spindly regency era chamber table belonging to a local gentleman. All it needed was some chips to be filled and repolishing, allowing Ralph to be confident enough in your abilities to complete it correctly. Your results came out on top, both Ralph and the customer being satisfied with your work, and you received the praise gleefully, along with the hefty tip the gentleman handed you over the counter. To you, everything was going fine and dandy.

Until October hit.

Apparently there were plenty of warning signs, according to most. They knew this was coming, your aunt knew this was coming. It was what she had said when you sat with her on the steps of the front porch.

“Shops are going to start disappearing.” She said, keeping her gaze ahead as she watched the cars sputter by. “With the rate this is going, I’m going to have to pull the boys out of school and get them working – I can’t keep the walls of this house up by myself.”

It had sent chills down your spine when you had picked up a newspaper, the words ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Stock Market Crash’ staining the pages for weeks. You put your mind and body into helping Mr LeBlanc, desperate for him to keep his business up and running. Unfortunately, as prices dropped, less people wanted to splurge the extra cash on something nice and antique, so you both lowered prices where you could, even going to lengths to hammer fliers to every street-post that advertised restoration jobs for any household item, promising customers that they would save money on repairs instead of buying it new.

It worked more than you thought, and it brought in enough income for Ralph to scratch by. He was also grateful you hadn’t asked for a raise to cope with the financial crisis, flat-out refusing when he had tried to hand you some tips he had received.

It was just the beginning of December when Ralph had called the house phone as you were getting ready for work. Ollie had yelled up the stairs to tell you and you scrambled down in your work trousers with your nightgown still on. Grabbing the phone, you listened to a raspy Mr LeBlanc as he told you he had falling ill with the usual winter flu. Unfortunately, being 63 meant that he was more susceptible to the illness, and was unsure if he would recover. If he did, it would still take a while, so he had asked you that morning if you were capable of running the shop solo. You had instantly said yes, refusing to let any sidetrack be his business’s downfall, so, with your head held high, you walked to his house, picking up any essential documents that he said you would need, and kept the shop up and running to the best of your abilities.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Friday, 6th December, 1929.

It was the Friday of the first week of December when you were an hour away from closing. You had been lucky that it had been pretty quiet the last few days, allowing you to settle into working your first ever Monday to Friday and getting to know the everyday things that were essential to keep the doors open. You had brought an armchair behind the counter – the gap between the counter and the wall was spacey enough for you to fit the chair and a small side table.

After not seeing any customers for over an hour, you had wandered off to the small side kitchen hidden by a Persian rug hung over the doorway to fetch yourself a warm cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake that Agnes had slipped into your lunch bag that day. Returning to the front, you placed the food and beverage on the side table, and sank into the chair, propping your feet up and delving into the book you had bought a few months ago.

Your eyes were drooping by the time you finished the tea and cake, and you rested your head on the back of the cushion, lowering your eyelids shut but remaining awake, knowing you had to get up soon in order to close in a half hour. Though the sudden sound of the shop’s bell chiming had you shooting out of your seat like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Scrambling to your feet, you scooted over to plop yourself on the counter stool, fixing yourself to look as presentable as possible as you faced the person entering. It was the mailman, stomping his boots to rid of the snow from the mild blizzard outside on the shoe rug by the door whilst holding a semi-large parcel under his arm. You recognised him from his rounds of the area, normally dropping off the odd parcel here and there for Ralph. Making sure the curls you had pressed into your hair overnight weren’t flattened at the back, you straightened out the silk scarf tied round the front of your head, flicking a curl out of your eye, and faced the man with a warm smile, to which he returned. He was a tall, young looking lad, older than you, but youth still shone in his eager eyes as he approached you.

“Afternoon ma’am,” he greeted, tipping his snow patterned hat. “I apologise for the snow on the floor, m’fraid the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

You waved him off, assuring that you were going to be cleaning up soon anyway. He inquired about Mr LeBlanc’s whereabouts, and you explained that his illness wasn’t letting up any time soon.

“Shame,” he said. “I know you’re probably not getting overrun, but it still must be complicated being a young woman running someone else’s business – especially near Christmas, having to trek home in the cold and wet by yourself.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” You laughed with a shake of your head, trying to not let your frustration show at the thought of him doubting your skills because of your gender. “He’s given me everything I need, and I can deal with the weather just fine. Wet and cold is the norm where I’m from.” Changing the subject, you gestured to the half-damp parcel still under his arm. “Is that addressed to Ralph or the shop?”

As if suddenly remembering the reason he was here, he quickly hauled the parcel from under his arm and slid it onto the counter.

“It’s for the shop.” He explained, gesturing a gloved hand to it. “S’pose it’s a last minute repair for a Christmas gift or somethin’.”

Placing your hands on either side, you slid the large square box towards you. Standing up from the stool, you peered at the top. Brushing off the half-melted snow, you read the handwriting that ornately spelled out the address - this was probably another repair.

The parcel itself was probably the neatest you had ever seen anything wrapped. The parcel paper was thick and expensive, the water and snow running off without leaving any trace behind except for a slight sheen, and the edges were folded so crisp and perfectly shaped and flat you wondered if whoever had wrapped it was human. Tied round like a present was a thick twine, looping into a bow directly in the middle of the top. You admired the dedication of whoever had put in the time to wrap this, running your fingers over the corners only to jerk them back slightly as the folds were so sharp they felt like they were slicing at your skin.

Looking back at the mailman, you thanked him for the delivery, and hoped him safe travels back home. Tipping his hat at you, he turned away with a farewell, and the bell chimed again when he opened the door, dipping his head against the wind as he faded into the white wall outside.

When the howling wind finally allowed the door to shut, you began the closing routine, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone else today with the severity of the weather outside. After locking the exits and pulling the shutters closed and the blinds down, you kept the shops lanterns on as you lifted the hefty parcel with a grunt and shuffled through the hidden doorway into the workshop.

Sliding it onto the table, you got to work opening it up, pulling the twine bow free and taking some small hand-held shears to slice open the glued down folds to reveal a cardboard box.

Pulling the thick brown paper and twine out from underneath, you chucked them onto the other workbench pushed against the wall to the right. Placing the shears down, you pushed your fingernails between the gap of the serrated cardboard and swung the flaps open. Inside was a lot of loose cotton wool, and you reached in, removing the protective layer and chucking it onto the table whilst simultaneously thanking whoever had spent their time padding the box out. This uncovered a semi-large shape swaddled in a maroon-coloured knitted blanket, and you reached your arms in deep to wrap around the object and haul it out.

Laying it on the table, you pushed the box and wool out of the way, and gently began unwrapping the blanket, mindful that some repair jobs may start out with several shattered pieces that you certainly didn’t want to accidentally drop an lose amongst everything. Coming to the final layer, your nails slotted through some of the holes of the knitting and clacked against what sounded like solid wood, and slipping the material off, you had your first look at your new potential project.

It was an old radio. Well, not that old, considering radios had only been in circulation for a decade or so, but it was one of the earlier models, the features you recognised from when you visited the county Mayor’s house when you were in your early teens. It was shaped with a resemblance to a cathedral arch, the wood panelling around the edge looking like pillars that began swirling and spiralling into gothic patterns the closer you got to the top. These patterns decorating the fine grated material that covered the speaker, and a few dials were situated on the bottom half, and you immediately noticed one was missing.

Pulling a stool over, you sat down to get a closer look, and you noted down the damages that came to light. It had obviously been looked after over the years, but, as always, people are prone to accidents, and this radio seemed to have gone through a few. Apart from the dial that was missing, there was a large split down one side, between two of the panels, and scratches and slight dents from where it had obviously been dropped. Grabbing your notebook, you jotted down your initial observations, before diving your hands into the left over cotton in the box to search for anything that could assist you.

To your luck, you found a small linen bag about the size of your palm, that you untied to reveal the missing dial and a few pieces of wood that had come off in some areas. Returning to your notes, you were just about to start a proposal form for treatment when something caught your eye. Looking over to the blanket you had put to the side, your eyes landed on a fancy looking envelope.

Reaching over, your fingers clasped around the paper, the material just as thick and expensive feeling as the parcel wrap, and you brought it towards you, careful not to elbow anything in the process, because if they could afford fancy radios and paper during this crisis, then they certainly were expecting you to repair this with equally expensive standards. Holding the paper up you read the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope:

To  the Owner.

Turning it over, you pried the even fancier wax seal apart as gently as you could as to not ruin the paper, and opening the flap, you reached in to slide out a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, you began to read the matching, loopy words.

---

December 4 th, 1929

Dear Owner,

I do hope this package finds you well. I am delivering this fine radio to be repaired at your establishment, as it belongs to my dear Mother and I would be overjoyed to have it completed in time for Christmas. Unfortunately, it has suffered its fair share of drops and bumps, but from what I have heard from others in our beloved city, you should be able to do an excellent job. The outside is obvious with what needs to be done, but there are areas within the interior mechanics that require some repairs. Now, I would take it to the radio shop, but the man who owns it is oh-so unpleasant, and would take weeks to be returned.

I am sure you would be happy to take on this challenge, for my mother’s sake, and that you will do a splendid job.

Regards,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

You blinked. Then furrowing your brows, you read it again. And again. Did this guy want you to not only fix up the look of his mum’s radio, but magically know the ins and outs of radio technology? You shook your head, then did a quick once-over of the words scrawled onto the page. Yep, he wanted you to do a Frankenstein and completely resurrect the old thing.

Placing you elbow on the table, you rested your chin on your palm as you stared at the wall covered in tool across the room. There was no way you could do this, not without Mr LeBlanc still ill – though even if he was here, you didn’t know if he had any knowledge on radios. Sighing, you rubbed at your face tiredly, not caring if you smudged the mascara on your lashes, it wasn’t like anyone was going to walk in on you with panda eyes anyway. Letting out a prolonged groan, you came to the final decision of what to do.

Trudging back into the shop, you quickly made yourself another cup of tea, before snatching some of the letter paper and an envelope from under the counter. Slumping back onto the stool in the workshop, you placed the paper in front of you whilst reaching into one of the drawers attached to the table to grab a pen, then, taking a moment to think of what you were going to say, you began writing.

---

December 6 th, 1929

Dear Mr Boudreaux,

Thank you for your enquiry. As much asI would love to fulfil your request, there are some issues regarding certain stages of the repairs. Mr LeBlanc, who owns the company, has taken ill this last week, and it is not yet known when he will recover, and I am the only member of staff he has employed at the moment. Unfortunately, I am not experienced in radio mechanics, and strongly advise that you come and collect the radio and take it to be repaired at a radio shop.

The radio can be returned here for outer repairs, but I am afraid that is the only option I can offer you at this time. The radio will be ready for you to collect from 9am on Monday morning. I do apologise for the inconvenience.

Regards,

---

Signing the first letter of your name, along with you surname, you read over what you had written. Satisfied, you sealed it in the envelope and got to work wrapping the radio back up. Quickly taking a candle, you took a peek in between the crack in the wood, the light shining on the innards. You definitely had no chance of fixing that, if the absolute mess of dislodged coils, wires and metal pieces inside said anything. Reluctantly you placed it back in its box wrapped up and padded with the cotton, before taping it up and re-glueing the parcel paper and twine back in place. It was a shame that you had to reject the request, the payment for the repair would have benefited you and Ralph quite a bit, and it made you feel awfully guilty to prevent someone’s gift for their mother, but it was out of your control. So, with the guilt hanging over your head, you pushed the parcel into the corner under one of the tables on sale.

Doing one last round of the shop, you extinguished the candles dotted around and flipped the light switches off except the main one by the door. With your coat and gloves on, you made sure the scarf was wrapped tight round your neck before grabbing your bag and did one last sweep of the place. Glancing in the corner, you took one last lingering look at the sorrowful parcel that sat under the table, but quickly snatched your eyes away, and grabbing the keys, you flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the cold, looking for the nearest post-box with the letter grasped in your hand.

--------------------------------------------------------------

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Monday, 9th December, 1929.

Monday came rolling round as usual, and you began your usual weekday routine of washing and dressing yourself before heading downstairs for breakfast. Scooping some scrambled eggs onto the toast on your plate, you trudged from the kitchen to the dining room, the slap of your bare feet on the tiles echoing through the wide hallway.

Shuffling through the doorway, you sat opposite Ollie, who, by the looks of it, was still waking up as he shovelled buttered toast into his mouth with his head still lying sideways on the table. Reaching over, you slapped the handle of your fork against his ear that stuck out from between his loose, dark curls, and he let out a whine as he sat up to face you with one eye glued shut, the other barely open, bread hanging from between his frown.

“You’ll choke eating like that.” You said as you scooped egg into your mouth.

Ollie dropped the toast from his mouth onto his plate. “Good.” He mumbled. “S’better than Miss Sammie droning on and ooonnnn about nonsense.” He flopped his head back on the table.

“Well enjoy it while you can.” You snorted. “If this crash gets any worse Mum will be pulling you both out to find jobs. And I know you two wouldn’t last a day in the workplace.”

He jerked his head back, scrunching his face in offence. “Like you would be any better.”

You deadpanned. “I’m currently working 9 -5, Monday to Friday, dumbass.” You jabbed back in annoyance, throwing a piece of crust at his forehead.

“Shit, forgot about that.” He grumbled, but perked up suddenly. “Yea, but you’ve only been working full time since last week!”

You chucked another crust. “Running a shop full time on my own – something I’ve never done before??”

“Still.” He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

You had opened your mouth to retort, but stopped halfway as Allie’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.

“There’s been another one!” he called out, almost excitedly, the thumping of his feet vibrating through the floorboards as he practically sprinted into the room with the morning newspaper grasped firmly in his hands. The two of us jerked back as he slammed it onto the table.

“Amuver!?” cried Ollie, voice muffled by food, though he quickly swallowed it. All evidence of his tiredness now gone, he snatched up the paper and brought it right up to his face. “It’s barely been a week!”

“I know!” Allie replied, his voice rising in volume every time he spoke. “At this point it could end up happening every month!”

You looked between the two of them confused since you couldn’t see what Ollie was reading. “What could happen?” you asked, perplexed.

The two of them froze, turning to stare at you. Their eyes darted to each other, before Ollie lowered the newspaper and spoke.

“…The murders?” He revealed, as if it was the most obvious thing.

You blinked, then looked between the two, more confused. “What murders?”

“What!?” Allie cried, bracing his hands on the table as he leant over it, eyes wide. “You’ve been gallivanting round town for seven months and don’t know about thee murders??”

You leant back slightly at the sight of your cousin’s crazy expression, and slowly shook your head. “I’m uh – not one to read the newspaper often.” You explained sheepishly.

He gaped, clearly shocked at your lack of knowledge about the subject. His head whipped to where his brother sat, and his hand reached out and snatched the newspaper from Ollie’s. You quickly moved your breakfast out of the way, saving your food from being flattened as Allie slammed the paper down and began aggressively prodding at the headline on the front page. Swatting his hand away, you read the giant words printed above a photograph of a lake you didn’t recognise.

‘BARRISTER FOUND BUTCHERED ON EMBANKMENT’

Suddenly intrigued, brought the paper closer to read the front column.

Tragedy strikes again in New Orleans as the remains of county barrister, Paul Morgan, were found on the embankment and in the water of Lake Cataouatche by visitors to the area. Morgan was reported missing last Wednesday by his wife, Martha, when he failed to return home for two days after a night out on Monday with his colleagues. It was reported that Morgan’s body was dismembered, and his head took several hours to locate. However, certain body parts are still missing, therefore the lake has been closed off to the public for the foreseeable future. Police are calling in and searching for potential suspects, and give their condolences to Paul’s close family and friends, stating that they are working overtime to bring the killer to justice and prevent any further deaths. Due to the nature and severity of the crime, it is possible that this is another victim of who the public dubs ‘The Bayou Butcher’. The Sheriff strongly encourages people to stick to an early curfew and remain indoors after nightfall, as the safety of the public cannot be guaranteed at this trying time. (More on Page 5)

You went to flip through, but the paper was pulled out your hands by Ollie who wanted to read it.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Allie hissed excitedly as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table between you both. “This could be another Axeman!”

Ollie gasped, eyes sparkling. “Shit, it could!”

You perked up. “Another Axeman? How long has this guy been around?” you asked as you brought your breakfast back in front of you.

Allie turned to you, eyes shining in excitement. “The first body was found in 1927 – and the rest have been popping up every 2-3 months, but this is the first time there’s been two in less than two weeks!”

You narrowed your eyes in thought. “How do you know it’s all one guy?”

At this question he seemed to get more excited, practically vibrating in his seat as he gestured to his twin. “Ollie and I have been collecting newspaper clippings on every murder that’s happened, and we’ve tried to eliminate any outliers – like, different weapons, ones that are bleedin’ obvious who did it – the rest all have the same MO: they never find the whole body.” He yammered on at light speed, emphasising each word with a loud thump of his finger prodding the table. “Sometimes it’s not obvious, I think they try to throw the police off by going for something small – like a finger – but there’s always something missing, and we know it’s them.”

You frowned. “Them?”

He shrugged. “Could be a woman.” You raised an eyebrow. “What!? I don’t discriminate! Women can be scary!” You slowly sat back in your seat, staring your cousin down. He pointed at you as he looked at his brother with wide eyes. “See!? You wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged a body in?”

Ollie swallowed the food he was chewing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the second Great Fire of London because someone stole her food.” He said nonchalantly, before casually returning to his toast.

“Exactly!” cried Allie. “No wonder the government wants you all nice and buttoned up in a strait jacket!”

Dropping your fork with a clatter, you looked up at him in shock, mouth hanging open. He froze, quickly realising what he had said, and his face slowly scrunched up as he cringed.

“Too far?” he squeaked meekly as he glanced at you. “Sorry.”

Pouting, you glared silently before picking your fork back up.

A few moments of silence passed, before Ollie decided he had experienced enough of the dampened mood. “You know,” he began, catching your attention again. “We think the body parts aren’t just missing for the sake of it.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued again.

He looked you directly in the eye. “We think they’re eating them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oo yummy, like a cannibal?” you queried, eyes darting to Allie, who perked back up, nodding. “So… there’s a cannibalistic serial killer running around New Orleans?”

Allie pointed a finger. “Serial killer, yes. Cannibal, possibly. We don’t actually have any proper evidence for that. I’m also going to skip the ‘yummy’ part, cuz I know you would never willingly consume human flesh.”

“You would be correct,” you confirmed with an amused smile, before glancing at the two. “Has mum ever suggested that you two should consider joining the police force?”

All you got were two matching cheshire grins in response.

----------------------------------------

After cleaning up your food, and disappointing the twins because no, you didn’t bring your serial killer books to America with you, because you didn’t want to be judged by the luggage inspectors on the ferry, besides, Jack the Ripper got a little boring after a while.

Even though it was interesting to learn about the current events of the city you were staying in, the subject of said current events did end up putting you on edge when you travelled to work that morning, with you clutching your bag a little tighter, and intensely staring down anyone who looked at you a little odd on the tram. It even got to the point where you had stepped off the tram, and spent the ten minute walk between there and the shop glancing down any alleyways as subtle as you could, even though you knew you would spot anyone against the white snow that reflected the morning sun into your poor, suffering eyes anyway.

Unlocking the shop doors, you stepped in, stomping the snow off of your boots on the mat before picking it up and shaking it off outside. Crossing the threshold of the room, you ducked under the rug into the kitchen, shrugging off your scarf and coat and hanging them up on the pegs.

You were just dusting off the old grandfather clock that was slotted between the shelves of smaller antique clocks when a knock echoed through the shop. Jumping slightly, you lowered the feather duster in your hand and looked over your shoulder to see the same mailman from Friday waving at you through the window in the door, his smile growing as you made eye contact with him . Placing the duster down, you quickly strode over to the door, twisting the locks before pulling it open and sticking you head through the gap.

“I do apologise Miss,” he began after you said hello. “I hate to interrupt you whilst your still getting ready to open, but my boss handed some priority mail to me – said I had to get it to you as soon as I could.” He held a letter out in front of you.

Frowning, confused, you slowly reached out and took the letter from his hands. “Okayyy…” Turning the letter around you came across some very familiar hand writing:

‘To Mr LeBlanc’s Employee.’

“Oh god.” You groaned quietly, your shoulders slumping. This could turn out to be quite nasty if this was going the way you thought it would.

The mailman glanced between the letter and your very prominent grimace. “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern shining in his eyes.

“Yea! Yea,” you breathed, glancing around the street with the dwindling hope that your client would show up to pick up his parcel, but the letter in your hand said otherwise. “Everything’s fine. Just some very small business issues.”

He glanced at your face again, and went to open his mouth, but hesitated, seemingly switching what he was going to say. “Well, uh, I hope everything goes well, ma’am. I’ll see you around?”

You nodded, still staring down the street. “Yea, sure. See you around.” You said distractedly. Quickly giving him a strained smile, you stepped back to close the door, and the man tipped his cap at you again before strolling away.

Walking over to the counter, you slumped onto the stool with a groan, chucking the letter down in front of you. Leaning your elbows on the surface, you rested your forehead against your palms as you glared at the words inked onto the paper. The way it was addressed to you already screamed passive-aggressive, and you hated confronting anything or anyone with a passion, and you certainly didn’t want to confront this Boudreaux guy because you denied his mum a Christmas present. With a loud whine, you slammed your head onto the counter before blindly patting the surface until you felt the thick paper and slowly dragged it towards you. Sitting back up, you held the seemingly innocent envelope in front of you, and stared at it for a couple more moments, before you couldn’t take it anymore and tore it open.

---

December 7 th, 1929

To the Employee of Mr LeBlanc,

I hope this letter has found you in post haste. I am deeply upset that you lack the skills of radio repair, after all it is a growing medium that most should be learning at this point. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will refuse your rejection. The fliers you put out stated very clearly that you could repair ANY object, and it would be very disappointing for people to hear that it no longer has that skill to offer, since the only other option for radio repair during these trying times is a very unpleasant experience with that owner I mentioned.

I do hope my Mother’s radio will be fixed on time, I do hate to disappoint her. If Mr LeBlanc does not recover within the period, or you have any queries about the repair, please call the number I have written below.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Best Wishes,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

If your mouth hung open any further than you would be catching every insect that resided in the swamps surrounding the town.

Was this guy fucking for real??

You scoffed slightly. Then again. Eventually you scoffing spiralled into manic laughter as you guffawed at the audacity that this man thought he had. With wide eyes, you slammed the paper down back onto the counter, staring over at the wall because if you looked at those words any longer you would probably end up tracking this man down so you could shove his mother’s radio up his ass along with the fat metal rod that apparently already resided there.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed back the stool and stood up, deciding you needed you reset your mind before the first customers came in. Marching back to the kitchen, you spent the next five minutes sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for the kettle to boil as you very angrily stuffed the blueberry muffin you had brought in your mouth. You glanced at the clock and pouted as you realised you only had 15 minutes before you had to put on your best customer-friendly expression despite the metaphorical grey cloud that thundered above your head.

Thinking for a moment, you shot back up, chucking the muffin case as you strode back through to the counter, and snatched the letter up, marching back to the kitchen over to the rotary phone on the table in the corner. Picking up the handset, you pressed it to your ear as you spun the number written out on the paper in front of you.

It rang for a moment, and you tried to picture the man who would – hopefully – receive your call. You expected to hear the gruff voice of some 50 year old, that would start yelling down the line about how incompetent you were, especially when he found out you were a woman, before you heard a crackle as it was picked up and a polite and much younger sounding “Hello?” came through.

You froze for a moment, your vision of some rude, old guy whooshed away at the voice of a much younger, more spritely man, and you pictured someone like the mailman, until you heard a louder, drawn out “Hellooo?”, the man on the other end seemingly becoming amused at your lack of response.

Snapping yourself out of the character builder you had in your mind, you quickly spoke. “Hello, do I happen to be talking to–”

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” You blinked as you were interrupted. “But I do believe you’ve accidentally called an American number!” The man said chipperly, though there was a condescending undertone – his amusement clearly growing at the thought of your apparent mistake. You guessed it was when he heard your accent.

“I- what?” you stammered down the receiver.

“Oh you poor thing.” He simpered over the line like some fake grandma comforting you after you tripped over. He was clearly having fun – you could just picture the fake pout he was putting on. “Like I said, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

No, this was definitely the right one. His attitude over the phone matched his attitude in the letter precisely.

You could hear him being to move to put the phone down, and you quickly called out. “WAIT NO!!” you cried, on the verge of an outrage. “I definitely put the right number in! Now, am I or am I not speaking to a Mister Boudreaux?”

“Oh! Do pardon me.~” He practically sing-songed. Oh, so now he was willing to listen? “Yes that is I, and to who do I owe the pleasure to be called by an English dame such as yourself?” the fake flirtatious tone had you picturing the faceless man laid on his front, kicking his legs as he twirled the coil between his fingers. You pushed that amusing thought down, however, when you caught sight of the piece of paper in your hand.

“I got your letter.”

“Ah,” It was like a switch was flipped, the man’s tone darkening slightly. “I see.”

Rereading the words this guy had put down, you could barely control yourself, and you pictured the time your mother had marched you down the lane to the house of a boy in your school year. That boy had given you a large bruise on your forehead, and instead of telling you that he did it because he fancied you, your mum decided to give him and his family the verbal lashing of your life. ‘I’m not raising you to snap at the slightest pressure like those London lasses, my love’, she had said, ‘You’re gonna go down kicking and screaming like it’s the last thing you’ll do’.

And that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.

“Right,” you began, your Yorkshire accent coming on full force. “I’m gonna need you t’ open yer lug ole, lad, cuz I dunno how you lot do customer service over here in America, but bein’ passive aggressive t’ someone who’s literally done nowt to deserve the absolute shite you’ve just given me makes you out t’ be a right knob’ead, you hear me?” You reprimanded. “If you don’t get your arse down to the shop by the end of the week, I’m putting ya mum’s radio down as unclaimed and selling it t’ the next person I see!”

You quickly slammed the phone down, too fuming to hear anything that Mr Boudreaux had to say. The only reason you felt a little guilty was that you knew nothing about this guy’s mum – she could be the sweetest woman in the world, and you just up and went and threatened to sell her possession! Though, with the way her son behaved, you would be surprised if she turned out to be just like him. Ugh, then you would be dealing with two of them.

Letting out a sigh, you picked up the phone again, instead dialling the phone number pinned to the corkboard on the wall. It rang for longer this time, and when it picked up you received a very loud coughing fit. When it died down, you finally spoke.

“Ralph I need your help.” You groaned, plopping yourself down on the spindly chair next to you with a defeated sigh.

“I’ve got the worst customer in the world.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Does uh, anyone want more memes?

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, and I do apologise for the sudden dialect change, I was desperate for MC to finally speak the way I do lol. See you soon for Chapter 3!!

Please let me know if you want to be added to the Taglist!

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[maximilliansblog]

Welcome Home Hyacinth Theory 🏠🪻🐛

Hello Tumblr! Most Welcome Home theories are just little bits and pieces or “Wally is evil, guys look!”/”Wally is not evil! He is a goober!” etc.

This theory is fully fledged and provides a plot and evidence. I call it the Welcome Home “Hyacinth” theory, after the myth that it is based on. This will be a very long post so here is a TLDR: Julie kills Eddie while they are playing croquette-bowling out of jealousy because he is getting too close to Frank, who is supposed to be her boyfriend/best friend within the show. Either just Eddie or everyone involved gets replaced, except for Wally, who witnessed everything. This is why we have all of those videos of Wally dissociating.

I have been sitting around in my toom rambling to myself about this theory like a madman for over a week so I decided to share it.

Please reference this post from @/partycoffin (the creator of Welcome Home) when discussing Welcome Home and be respectful in the comments and reblogs.

Extra information from @theneighborhoodwatch:

Welcome Home Observation Document

Welcome Home Livestream Trivia

Welcome Home Archive Links + Backup Screenshots

Fanmade Welcome Home Wiki (I don't recommend the Fandom wiki)

Extra information on exploring the website from @angel-lyah:

Welcome Home Website Secrets

Alright, let’s get into it! I have evidence to back up every single one of those claims, and I will include it in this post.

I want to be very thorough with explaining this. I’ll start by establishing that there are three main plots within Welcome Home (that I have noticed, anyways):

The plot of the late 60’s - early 70’s TV show, Welcome Home - only related to published episodes, books, audios, etc. that would have been shown to the public at the time of airing Welcome Home

“Behind the show” - feelings and actions of the puppets outside of the show (such as Frank and Eddie being a couple, or Frank being nonbinary)

The Welcome Home Restoration Project - people working to restore the TV show, Welcome Home, and find any and all information related to it and who made it

Okay so for the rest of this essay, when I mention BtS, it is related to the “behind the show” plot. I will color these things blue. When I write WtS, it is related to the “within the show” plot. I will color these things green. When I write WHRP, it is related to the Welcome Home Restoration Project. I will color these things pink. I will also mention things that have been said either on Clown’s Tumblr blog, Clown’s Twitter, or old streams. I will say CS, meaning “Clown source” to denote these things and color them orange. Clown source and behind the show areas often overlap, so Clown source information is dominant over behind the show information (if it is both I will just color it orange). Good? Good.

Now let’s establish our characters (only the ones related to this theory) and their relationships to one another. We’ll go alphabetically, starting with Eddie, then moving onto Frank, Julie, and Wally. 

I’m going to assume that if you are reading this, you have already visited the website (clownillustration.com) and have a basic understanding of who Eddie is. So I will only focus on the elements of his character that will be relevant in this theory.

Eddie (WtS) is clumsy and overworks himself. He is often dragged into Julie’s games. His house (post office) looks like this:

Note the hyacinth flowers and the butterfly. Eddie (BtS) loves Frank. (CS) He is married to Frank in one art on Clown’s Tumblr. BY THE WAY IT TOOK FOREVER TO FIND THIS IMAGE!!!! THEY ARE IN THE BOTTOM LEFT CORNER!!

Frank (WtS) is Julie’s boyfriend as it is implied that they are a couple within the show (I know a lot of us don’t like hearing this, but remember the three plots) (also for everyone that is going to argue with me on this, go look on their little profiles in the neighborhood section of the website and come back to me) and best friend. His house looks like this:

Note the sunflowers. Frank (BtS) loves Eddie.

(CS) As I said before, in one art on Clown’s Tumblr, Eddie and Frank are married (you can tell by the rings on their fingers in that image) . Frank is nonbinary but uses he/him pronouns (Clown refers to Frank on his blog with only he/him pronouns, so that is what I will use. Nonbinary people do not have to use they/them pronouns! Pronouns are not equal to gender!)

(WtS) Julie is a rainbow monster. Her thing is that she likes to make up and play games. She seems to be very strong (perhaps related to her being a rainbow monster), as she can easily lift Wally and is indirectly referenced to [throw a baseball very well] by Barnaby in the Live Interview audio. She also incorporates bowling into a lot of games where it is unnecessary. She seems to be immature, which is usually used to make her a playful character. Her and Frank are a couple. In several arts, her horns are different shapes or even nonexistent, implying that she has some ability to change her form. Her house looks like this:

Note the heart motif throughout the design. (BtS) Julie is best friends with Frank. (CS) She is genderfluid (she is only referred to using she/her pronouns on Clown’s blog, so that is what I will use). 

(WtS) Wally is the main character in Welcome Home. His house is alive and is named Home. Home is often considered to be a ninth neighbor. Wally often communicates for Home. (WHRP) Wally signs Home’s name in the guestbook (as Home does not have hands) (please stop with the tentacles I have seen the art please stop for the love of god where did that even come from). (WtS) The other neighbors frequently ignore and talk over Wally, but he doesn’t seem to mind, saying that he loves all of his friends in the live interview audio.

Okay so now that that is established, let’s look at some promotional art. Promotional art is not necessarily canon and may contain outdated designs, but may hint at the plot of Welcome Home. 

There is one more artwork that I would like to add, but it is on Clown’s KoFi. Here is a link to it that you can look at if you are subscribed to Clown’s KoFi:

[link to Clown’s KoFi here]

I won’t describe the image because some of you may not be subscribed to Clown’s KoFi. But if you are, you will see that the image supports my theory.

While we are discussing that image, I would also like to say that I believe that the puppets are some kind of biological organisms. I don’t have much evidence for this right now, but I may make a theory in the future. 

We will come back to those promotional arts soon. Right now, let’s look at Frank and Eddie’s houses and discuss some symbolism and mythology.

Frank’s house has sunflowers outside of it. Sunflowers are a symbol of Apollo. Eddie has hyacinths outside of his post office, obviously a symbol of Hyacinthus. Hyacinthus and Apollo were lovers, but Hyacinthus tragically died. Let me tell the story so we have context. (I am really into Greek mythology by the way, it’s always been a special interest since middle school but I am also a Hellenic pagan, you should follow my witchcraft and paganism blog, creatively named @maxiswitchcraftandpaganblog)

So Apollo, god of the sun, art, archery, and LOTS of various other things, loved Hyacinthus, who was a mortal Spartan man. And Hyacinthus loved him too, by the way. The god of the (west? don’t feel like googling it) wind, Zephyrus, was jealous of Hyacinthus, because he also loved Apollo. 

One day, Apollo and Hyacinthus were playing discus (like frisbee but the frisbee is giant and made of metal, kind of like a shield). Apollo threw the discus to Hyacinthus, but Zephyrus blew the discus off course with the wind, causing it to hit Hyacinthus in the head and kill him. Apollo created the hyacinth flower from Hyacinthus’ blood as he died, but in some myths made him a god. (read more on Apollo and Hyacinthus here)

I’m going to draw some parallels here. Frank = Apollo, Eddie = Hyacinthus, Julie = Zephyrus. Now Frank’s and Eddie’s parallels make sense because of the flowers, but where did I get Julie=Zephyrus from? Recall that (WtS) Julie and Frank are supposed to be a couple. Now, (BtS) Julie may or may not like Frank in that way, but she certainly enjoys being close to him as his best friend. Since she is already established as an immature character, it would make sense that she would be jealous seeing Frank get closer to Eddie.

Pause. So WtS, Frank and Julie are together. BtS, Frank and Eddie are together. If these are separate, then what is Julie jealous about? (WtS) Frank has been seen getting closer to Eddie even in the official material of the show. An example of this is him telling Eddie that he works too hard at the end of the “Eddie’s Big Lift” storybook record. So his BtS love for Eddie is leaking into the WtS canon. That is a problem for Julie, who is supposed to be Frank’s girlfriend WtS. So she comes up with an idea to fix this, much like the jealous god, Zephyrus. 

So what does she do? Let’s turn our attention to the “Just So” song demo. This song was never finished with instrumentals, and for a reason. The puppets function as actors in the show, as it is obvious that they have their own free will, and Julie does something that the writers do not expect later in this episode. So the song was never finished because the episode was ruined. 

In the “Just So” song demo, Frank and Julie are about to play croquette bowling. It was supposed to be just croquette, as Frank put on his croquette bow tie, but last minute, Julie added bowling to the mix. 

Wally knocks on the door and interrupts their song, saying that Home wants to play croquette bowling too. This implies that Julie told someone else that they would be playing croquette bowling after she added bowling. I feel like Wally and Home overheard Julie telling Eddie that they would be playing croquette bowling. This would make sense, as Wally often stands by and listens while the other neighbors talk. It is not unusual for Eddie to participate in Julie’s games, either, as we see from Julie playing “business woman in the big city” with him. [add a photo]

The song recording ends before we see them playing croquette bowling together. But I have a piece of evidence to tell us how it ends. Look at this promotional art again.

You probably assumed that the figure in the back was holding a hammer, but that could actually be a croquette mallet!

It’s covered in some gory-looking stuff, probably from Eddie. Now look at the flower. Whose eyes look like that? Almond-shaped, round pupils. Only one character: Wally. Wally was a witness, which would make sense for him, since he often watches on as the other neighbors do things. 

Julie is holding the flower in front of her, looking innocent. This is a stretch, but I think that this might be symbolism for her saying that she didn’t do it on purpose, Wally saw the whole thing, ask him! And Wally doesn’t know what to do. I don’t know what he does from there.

Maybe this image is a clue? I genuinely don’t know. Once again, promotional art is not necessarily canon, but we can use the concepts from it in theories.

This next part is also a bit of a stretch. The neighbors having a memory of something like that happening would ruin their “acting” (I think they are just being recorded as they do what they would naturally do). The show can’t have that. The solution? Replace everyone involved. 

Now go back and look in the promotional art section and look at that art of Frank. It looks like Frank is laying among extra puppet parts. They have extras!

And this is why Wally is dissociating in the videos we see when we click on the bugs. They did not replace him, because like the neighbors, they didn’t even notice he was there.

Okay yeah that’s the theory. It was really hard to get this into a coherent Google Doc and gather all the links. I was just rambling to myself about this in my room over and over pacing around for like a week. But yeah here you go, hope it's a good theory, sorry if it's not lol please be nice to me

[santoschristos]

Shakti & Shiva in YabYum: the divine representation of the union of energy and awareness. + Later, under the fig tree, the master explained. "AIl that has to be changed. The stallion must be turned into a mare, man into a woman.

There is no other way. You remember how full of joy the mare was, anticipating her strength even before any thing happened? And then afterward it was she who was triumphant.

This is the story of the race. Woman came from man, but once the two sexes became independent, it was inevitable that one would devour the other. That is what the universe is: someone gives and someone receives.

There is always a sacrificial victim. Many people believe that the only way to avoid this cycle is asceticism and chastity. But this never works, for in one way or another the individual is devoured.

Always the man's role is secondary. The mare devours the stallion who has impregnated her, the bee kills the drones, the primeval mother carries around her neck the primordial Lingam.

Every mother, mare, goddess and woman is a devouress, and in one form or other every male is castrated and consumed." He paused.

To change all this we must redirect the tremendous energy that you saw in the stallion. We must restore the original principle of male passivity and female activity. The world was created not by the masculine ptinciple but by the feminine. Love must learn to follow this course. Only those willing to learn how to love women in a different way, murdering them out wardly in order to permit an inner rebirth, will find the immortal city of Agharti.

"The key moment is when the semen is ejaculated. When the stallion ejaculates, he becomes impoverished. The role of the male appears to end while the female's begins. But semen is also soma and should be Conserved.

It should not spurt outward but inward.

Outwardly it can only create children of the Aesh, while inwardly it makes sons of the spirit. Outwardly it plays the mother's game; inwardly the male is impregnated and engenders the son of man.

"No sons of the flesh are born in this loveless love. There are only sons of the spirit, escaping cyclical life, who are created when the semen is driven inward, giving them eternal life."

"Semen is a visible aspect of the great power of which we are all a part. It is OM made into substance. It is the movement of the sun within your blood and of the sea of life within your body. It is also the word you use to communicate with the gods.

You must therefore preserve it if you wish to enter Agharti." The disciple said that he had seen statues of Siva and Paryati making love on the walls of the temple but he did not under stand how the semen was to be withheld.

"You must discovcr this for yourself. You must transform a natural act into a ritual, changing it into something supernatural. Ordinary sexual life does not create magicians or Siddhas; it merely perpetuates the human race. You will therefore have to follow a different road, also in the company of a woman so that you will both be saved. If she is not with you, something will be left unfulfilled and incomplete. You will have attained nothing.

Even at the ends of their lives, saints and ascetics con tinue to yearn for women. The technique you must follow is therefore not something you learn but something you must grow to understand. At the moment of ecstasy Siva remains motion less; he does not ejaculate his semen. She, Parvati, is the active one, for when woman does not rcceive, she gives.

From her skin the woman transmits a substance which enters the man's blood and becomes a part of him. It creates a unity within him. The seed is planted, and he enters the city of Siddhas. Pure sexuality echoes a desire to return to the ancestral home. It is a return to unity: true sex is the nostalgia of the gods.

"You are carried beyond the realm of ordinary existence. The life of a magician goes against nature: it proceeds in the opposite direction." --El/Ella ~ Book of Magic love

art: Expanding Universe by Alphachanneling

[mindyco]

Bro, why can I imagine Mammon just kissing us on our greasy, pimple-filled forehead before running out of his own room all flustered. Sorry for roasting all of us like that (•᷄ࡇ•᷅ ;) Artwork credit: @myt_s3

Scenario: The brothers' reaction to you going to their rooms due to a nightmare

Awake by your sudden entrance, Lucifer's eyes snap open, his expression a mix of surprise and alertness. He quickly rises from his bed, his tall figure casting a commanding presence in the room.

With a gentle voice, he approaches you, reaching out a hand to steady your trembling form. "Are you alright?" he asks softly, his voice tinged with genuine worry.

"Nightmares can be unsettling. Rest assured, you're safe here. Come, sit down and tell me what's troubling you."

Lucifer guides you to a comfortable spot in the room, wrapping a warm blanket around your shoulders. He listens attentively as you recount the details of your nightmare, offering words of reassurance and understanding.

As the night begins to lose its grip on your fears, he remains by your side, providing a sense of security and comfort.

When you eventually fall asleep, Lucifer tucks you into bed, ensuring you're nestled in the soft blankets, before quietly leaving his room to sleep in the lobby.

Jolted awake by your presence, Mammon sits up in bed, his eyes widening in surprise. His protective instincts kick in as he takes in your distressed state.

With a mixture of concern and determination, he quickly approaches you, pulling you into a tight embrace. "Oi, what's the matter?" he asks, his voice filled with genuine worry.

"Nightmares ain't no joke! But don't worry, I'm here to protect ya."

Mammon finds a cozy corner of the room, settling you down with a fluffy pillow. He stays by your side, sharing stories and silly jokes, his infectious laughter casting away the remnants of your nightmare.

With each passing moment, Mammon's affectionate presence helps restore a sense of peace and security.

When you eventually fall asleep, Mammon covers you with a blanket and sneakily plants a soft kiss on your forehead before running out of the room.

Startled by your sudden appearance, Leviathan blinks his bleary eyes, trying to make sense of the situation. As he notices your distress, his face softens with concern, and he quickly sits up, offering you a spot beside him on his bed.

"Nightmares can be really tough, I know," he says, his voice gentle and understanding. "But hey, don't worry! I've got something that might help. Let's play video games and forget those scary dreams for a while!"

Leviathan retrieves his gaming console, eagerly showing you the latest game he's been playing. The room fills with laughter and excitement, distractions and camaraderie replacing the shadows of your nightmare.

When you eventually doze off, Leviathan carefully carries you back to your own room, making sure you're settled comfortably in bed before quietly slipping away.

Roused from his deep slumber, Satan opens his eyes, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he takes in your distressed appearance. His concern overrides any trace of sleepiness, and he quickly adjusts his glasses, rising from his bed to meet you.

"Nightmares can be quite distressing," he admits, his voice carrying a soothing cadence. "But fear not, for you're in the company of someone who understands. Sit down, I'll read you some literature."

Satan retrieves a carefully selected book from his collection, its pages filled with tales of triumph over adversity. As you immerse yourselves in the words, his calming presence and thoughtful insights provide a balm for your troubled mind.

The night passes with shared stories and quiet contemplation, gradually replacing your fears with a renewed sense of hope.

When exhaustion finally overtakes you, you lean against him, seeking comfort. He gently wraps his arm around you, offering a sense of security that helps ease your fears.

Determined not to disturb your fragile sleep, Satan tries his best not to move, ensuring your head remains cradled against his shoulder throughout the night. He sacrifices his own rest, staying awake to keep you safe and provide reassurance.

As the morning light begins to filter into the room, Satan feels a mix of exhaustion and contentment. He carefully disentangles himself from your slumbering form, his gaze soft with fondness. With a gentle touch, he brushes a strand of hair from your face before silently leaving the room to allow you to continue your peaceful rest.

Stirred from his slumber by your presence, Asmodeus blinks his eyes, a mischievous glint still lingering as he takes in your distressed state. His gaze softens, and he swiftly gets out of bed, approaching you with an empathetic smile.

"Sweetie, nightmares can be dreadful, but worry not," he says, his voice filled with warmth and compassion. "Let's wash away those fears and adorn ourselves in beauty. A little self-care can do wonders for the soul."

Asmodeus leads you to his vanity, where an array of beauty products awaits. Together, you indulge in a pampering session, laughter filling the room as you experiment with makeup, share beauty tips, and revel in the transformative power of self-love.

By the time you're done, the lingering traces of your nightmare have been replaced with a radiant smile.

As you drift off to sleep, Asmodeus covers you with a soft, satin blanket and places a delicate kiss on your cheek, ensuring you're enveloped in comfort before he gracefully exits the room.

Startled by your presence, Beelzebub's eyes widen in concern as he quickly gets up from his bed, towering over you with a protective stance. He notices your distress and, without hesitation, pulls you into a comforting embrace.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice filled with genuine worry. "Nightmares can be tough, but I'm here for you. Let's go to my room and make sure you're safe."

Beelzebub guides you to his bed, where the soft sheets and warm blankets offer a sense of comfort. He tucks you in, ensuring you're snug and secure, before sitting on the edge of the bed, watching over you with a gentle smile.

As the weariness of the night takes hold, you find solace in the tranquility of Beelzebub's presence, and soon sleep claims you. Unbeknownst to you, Beelzebub quietly slips off the bed, careful not to disturb your restful slumber.

Instead of returning to his own bed, Beelzebub settles himself on the floor next to you, using a spare blanket to make himself a makeshift bed. He finds comfort in knowing that you're safe and protected, even if it means sacrificing his own comfort for the night.

As the sun begins to rise, casting a warm glow through the room, Beelzebub stirs awake, his gaze immediately finding you still peacefully asleep. He smiles softly, quietly getting up from the floor, and with a gentle touch, he covers you with the blanket he used, ensuring you stay warm.

Beelzebub leaves the room quietly, allowing you to continue your peaceful slumber. He heads to the kitchen to prepare a hearty breakfast, knowing that when you wake up, he'll be there to greet you with a warm meal and a loving smile.

Stirred from his slumber by your arrival, Belphegor slowly opens his eyes, his expression shifting from annoyance to concern as he takes in your troubled state. He yawns and stretches, quickly sitting up and gesturing for you to join him on his bed.

"Nightmares, huh?" he mutters, his voice a mix of understanding and drowsiness. "Well, I know a thing or two about escaping nightmares. Let's take a little nap together. Sometimes, a little rest can make all the difference."

Belphegor pulls you close, creating a cozy nest of blankets and pillows. As his rhythmic breathing lulls you into a peaceful state, the fears from your nightmare gradually fade away. In the embrace of sleep, you find solace and a renewed sense of security.

When morning arrives, Belphegor wakes up first, carefully untangling himself from your embrace. He watches you sleep for a moment, a soft smile playing on his lips, before quietly slipping out of the room to let you rest.

～𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

[salarta]

For those of you not aware, X-Men 97 pulled an asshole move of completely excluding Lorna from what happened on Genosha.

This matters because in the comics, she worked with Magneto (before she knew he was her father) to build up Genosha and is one of the survivors of the genocide. Her story was one of failing to save everyone but having to relive the nightmare endlessly by replaying its final moments with her powers until the X-Men got her out of the ruins. Her history was also respected here in the Wolverine and the X-Men cartoon, which gave her great episodes and depictions - the only good ones she's had in cartoons to date.

There seems to be a common thread behind this genocide erasure in Lorna's history: nostalgia for Havolaris and how Lorna was treated in the 90s.

Jordan White was clearly trying to force each of these things while senior editor. At the same time, he had the X-Men books acting like Lorna had no connection at all to Genosha. This went so far that even an event where Kitty Pryde (Jordan White's favorite character, I've been told) did a big thing with Genosha had Lorna's appearance relegated purely to helping Kitty's plan and complaining about a lack of coffee. No acknowledgment she was a survivor of the genocide.

Then we have Beau DeMayo and X-Men 97. To date, the only references we've seen of Lorna were exclusively images of her with Havok and 90s X-Factor. One in opening credits, one in a photo in Forge's place. She's nowhere to be found whatsoever around Genosha in X-Men 97. The show even had X-Factor characters like Multiple Man show up to check things out, but no mention or presence at all for Lorna.

Here's where we stand right now. For a long ass time, I've said that I think there's a path to a relationship with Lorna and Havok eventually being a good thing. I've said it would take work and time where Lorna as her own character is restored and treated properly. I've never said getting the pair back together and it being a good thing was impossible.

This pattern of blatant, deliberate disrespect toward Polaris and her connection to Genosha is seriously making me reconsider that stance. If Lorna surviving a goddamn GENOCIDE can't be respected all because of some nostalgic assholishness, then how in the hell can Lorna make ANY progress or have ANYTHING good so long as the cause of this problem has any play around her? How can Lorna be treated as more than some stupid weakling supporting character girlfriend only there to kiss Havok's ass and jill off over his costume if something as essential as SURVIVING A GENOCIDE going to be ignored in service to sticking her in a toxic relationship with what is increasingly looking like a character that is just irredeemably toxic for Lorna to be around at all?

Up until today, I've said very up front that I seem a path of redemption for this pairing. X-Men 97 is changing my mind on that. I'm very seriously starting to think now that there is no redeeming this pairing and turning it into a good thing. Not when people like Beau DeMayo will erase a genocide from Polaris' character history for the sake of his personal fantasies.

I've said this elsewhere. But in closing, I'm going to be making a very deliberate effort to avoid everything having to do with Beau DeMayo because of his actions here. It's too late for me with the two Strange New Worlds episodes he did. But I already took Witcher and The Originals off my watchlists. And if he steps his toes into anything else I care about in the future, I'll be making it very clear why he shouldn't be involved in those things.

[justarandomnobody]

So, I'm playing in a game of Wrath of the Righteous for 1e Pathfinder. My character is a witch with a martyr complex who always jumps in front of the danger in order to protect whoever she thinks needs protection, but not in a suicidal way. Her class was originally a homebrew we found, a Paladin/witch hybrid class, pretty fun to play, and she was a follower of the Cardinal Martyr, Vildeis, so she had a personal crusade against evil. But she's a witch, so she can't land a hit to save the life of her, nor can handle too much damage.

Anyway, fast forward to the end of book 2, our cleric snapped because reasons (problems with players IRL), and a rather simple fight against a vampire turned into a boss fight and we were on the losing end. The game was halted by around six to eight months because of said player and another one's behaviors, but got back and now it's all going well.

Despite everything, in that fight, my witch, Abigail, was the only casualty. She died trying to restore the strength of her half orc bloodrager friend, who was the main damage deliverer in the party. She got slammed by the vampire, and though she still had hit points left, she got 10 negative levels at level 9, so there wasn't anything anyone could do. Mechanically, she died because of slams, but narratively, she died because the vampire avoid all the party just to grab her and quickly suck her dry (and restore himself a little by that).

It was a tragedy because of several points:

The reason the cleric player snapped is because they were trying to live their impossible romance with the half orc player, and they were more involved in their story than everything else.

That said, he half orc was Abigail's best friend, and he ignored her death just to focus on his romance and their tragedy (he was going to leave the crusade with her after that). So it was left to the monk and paladin to retrieve her body and get back to the camp with it.

My gm included several characters from the Owlcat's CRPG, including Daeran, and he was courting Abigail, while denying it, and she was denying that she really like him back, because that's the kind of tsundere they are. Well, Daeran was waiting for us to come back with some other characters,, and before they went down in the dungeons, Abigail promised him she would be back (this was a death flag I put there myself, we were kidding a lot with them before, to the point we did a scene just to raise death flags for every character, but this last one was unprompted, just me being in tsundere character).

So Daeran received Abigail's body, and he broke down and took her back to camp to wake her personally, because he was really in love, despite being a degenerate with no affective responsibility. The rest of the party was also sad, but it took a couple of months to the half orc player to realize his character should be devastated.

Anyway, when we got back, my gm and I talked about how could she, and we found a common ground: a character killed by a vampire would rise as a vampire spawn, but it would be freed and a fully fledged vampire if their master was destroyed before that. So Abigail raised from the death. She almost drained dry Daeran in the process, but could control herself. Now she was rejected by her goddess, but she's willing to take this responsibility, the ultimate sacrifice, to keep fighting for the people in the Fifth Crusade.

At first, we tried to build her as a lower level character with a vampire template, but that made her underpowered for almost everything, but overpowered for surviving against weird stuff, so we decided that the best path to take would be to give her a dhampir build and the vampiric aspect, just as a narrative issue, lest the party would end up unbalanced and underprepared for encounters.

Now she has to face the rest, and must come to terms with her need for blood of the living, living in the darkness, to fight for the light... And desire for blood, because despite herself, she likes the blood. Is it instinct or is it that that's who she really is (she was a changeling before her death, avoiding the call)? It's her job to find out. And to come out to Daeran, and stop pretending she doesn't like him (and that he doesn't like her).

[princesssarisa]

Cinderella Tales from Around the World now traces the Love Like Salt motif to England.

*Here, of course, we find the most famous example of this motif, King Lear. I won't bother to summarize it, both because it's so well-known and because it doesn't follow the typical Cinderella/Donkeyskin model of a Love Like Salt tale, but becomes a different story after using that motif at the beginning. Still, Heiner's book wouldn't be complete without it.

**This already doorstopper-sized book doesn't have room for the full text of Shakespeare's play. But it does feature the source material: the story of King Leir from Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Brittaniae (History of the Kings of Britain). It also features two short prose retellings of Shakespeare's version that were written for children: one from Charles and Mary Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare and one from E. Nesbit's Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare.

**Geoffrey of Monmouth's King Leir is interesting to compare to the more familiar Shakespeare version: it differs in more ways than just the characters' names (e.g. King Leir and his daughters Gonorilla, Regau, and Cordeilla). In the source material, the love test takes place long before the rest of the action, when none of the sisters are married yet, and Leir uses the test to decide whom to choose as their husbands as well as how to divide the kingdom. Gonorilla and Regau claim to love him "more than my own soul" and "above all creatures," and receive half the kingdom and the Dukes of Albania (sic) and Cornwall as their husbands, while Cordeilla tells Leir that "As much as you have, so much is your value, and so much do I love you," and is disinherited and unceremoniously married off to the first willing foreigner, who fortunately is king of the Franks. Meanwhile, Leir doesn't retire from power just yet: his plan is for his daughters and sons-in-law to rule half the kingdom in his lifetime while he retains the other half, which will only become theirs after his death. But many years later, when Leir has grown old and feeble, his sons-in-law rebel against him and overthrow him. Only now, as effectively a prisoner of war, does he go back and forth between living with each daughter and face their abuse. (It's interesting that Shakespeare makes Lear old, feeble, and likely in failing mental health from the start, and has him choose from the start to give up ruling and place himself in his daughters' hands. Was this a change Shakespeare made himself, or did he inherit it from other adaptations?) Nor does Leir end up out on the heath in a storm, or go mad. He simply sails to Gaul in hope of Cordeilla's forgiveness, having realized all the value of what he once possessed now that it's gone, and that his other daughters and subjects only loved him for what he could give them while Cordeilla loved him as a person. Last but not least, the ending is completely different from Shakespeare's. The army of Cordeilla and her husband succeeds in overthrowing her sisters' husbands (no mention of what happens to Gonorilla or Regau themselves), and Leir is restored to the throne. When he dies three years later, Cordeilla, who by now is a widow, succeeds him. The story still ends tragically, though: Cordeilla is eventually dethroned by her sisters' sons and commits suicide in prison.

**Since we're looking at King Lear as a Love Like Salt tale, I think it's worthwhile to compare the response of Shakespeare's Cordelia to her father's love test to that of the princess in most versions of the fairy tale, or for that matter to Cordeilla's speech in the source. When the princess in the fairy tale says she loves her father like salt, she means that she loves him more than anything, because food is tasteless without salt. The king just misunderstands her words. The same is true when Cordeilla tells Leir that she loves him as much as the value of all he possesses, and he fails to appreciate it until he loses everything, just like the fairy tale king doesn't appreciate salt until he tastes saltless food. But Shakespeare's Cordelia makes two different points in her speech: (a) that her love for her father is beyond words, and she can't truthfully express it in words more beautiful than her sisters' carefully crafted lies, as Lear expects, and (b) that a daughter has a duty to love her father a certain amount, but no more. (In the source, Cordeilla also touches on this by telling Leir that her sisters' words of love aren't trustworthy because they exceed their duty.) Unlike in the source, Goneril and Regan are already married when the love test takes place, and Cordelia emphasizes that it's wrong of them to claim to love their father more than anything else, including, implicitly, their husbands; nor can she make that claim, because when she marries, she'll owe just as much love to her husband too. In a way, the shadow of Donkeykin with its incestuous father hangs even more over King Lear than over the Love Like Salt tale, because rather than giving a profound declaration of love and having it misunderstood as the opposite, Cordelia puts a limit on the amount of love her father can demand from her (though still loving him with all her heart) in the name of propriety.

**By the way, both the Lamb and the Nesbit retellings downplay the storyline of Gloucester, Edmund, and Edgar for more exclusive focus on Lear and his daughters (and probably to avoid talking about illegitimacy and eye-gouging in retellings meant for children). Nesbit omits it altogether, only attributing Lear and Cordelia's defeat to Goneril and Regan's forces and saying that Goneril poisons Regan out of "jealousy" with no further explanation, while the Lambs only mention Edmund and Edgar in passing.

*After the Lear retellings, Heiner's book offers probably the best known fairy tale version of Love Like Salt: the tale of Cap O' Rushes from Joseph Jacobs' collection. In this tale, both the heroine's father and her eventual husband are just rich gentlemen, not royalty. When her father asks his daughters how much they love him, the older two reply "as I love my life" and "better than all the world," but the heroine says "as fresh meat loves salt." After being banished, she covers her fine gown with a hooded cloak made of rushes (obviously linking this tale to the Scottish Cinderella tales of Rashin Coatie) and becomes a scullery maid. From there the story plays out as it does in so many Donkeyskins: she attends three dances, the young master falls in love with her, at the third dance he gives her a ring, then falls ill with longing, and she sends him a bowl of gruel with the ring inside. Then when they marry, she invites her father to the wedding incognito, teaches him his lesson by serving food without salt, and then reveals her identity and happily forgives him.

*In one last, lesser-known English version, Sugar and Salt, instead of asking his two daughters how much they love him, the father asks them "What is the sweetest thing in the world?" The older sister replies "Sugar," but the younger says "Salt," so the father banishes her for stupidity. But the girl is befriended and protected by fairies in the woods, and one day a prince goes hunting in those woods, sees her, falls in love, and takes her home to marry, with the requisite invitation sent to her father and lack of salt at the feast.

The next set of tales are from Pakistan and India.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @adarkrainbow, @themousefromfantasyland

[fantasyinvader]

I was thinking about how the situation with Caspapa in House really undermines Edelgard's narrative. In White Clouds, he and Edelgard have a secret meeting despite Caspar saying that they don't get along. When Edelgard is crowned emperor and declares war, he supports her and brings the army with him. And then when you play Flower and defeat Claude, it's revealed that she promised him control of the Alliance territories in exchange for his support. It mirrors the transactional nature of Edelgard's relationship with her supporters; with the Agarthans it's to take out Rhea, with the nobility it's that they can keep their titles in exchange for support while commoners have the promise of upward mobility. But this is also countered by Edelgard's ulterior motives, she's going to wipe out the Agarthans, strip the nobility of their power and all while removing safety nets as she oppresses the commoners. Leopold joining her in exchange for the Alliance is ultimately short-sighted on his part.

The Bergliez family don't really have the best showing others. We have Leopold above fighting a war for his own profit not to mention neglecting Caspar in Houses in proper in order to focus on his heir, and it can be noted that while he would sacrifice himself for his men the Imperial army takes no prisioners, there's Randolf who also fights for his own advancement, Caspar's brother does nothing because he feels he's secure in his own position, Fleche seeks revenge, Grandpa wanted to pass over Leopold to favor his son with the wife he liked, and then you have Caspar leading the Imperial army in conquering territories after the war while they're out of control according to the Japanese script.

But then I was thinking about how Caspar is, alongside Ferdinand, one of the hardest units in the game to recruit due to their B supports being locked behind the timeskip. They can't be recruited in Hopes to AG or GW either, and lose their paralogues in Flower. And Hopes revealed that their families both have the same Crest, Seteth's. And if you think about it, Ferdinand joins Edelgard in hopes of restoring his House after she strips them of power, meanwhile Caspar just sides with his family and is depicted as giving into bloodlust rather than thinking. The Aegir family is also the earliest example we know of of the Imperial nobility's decline, with him challenging the Emperor to a duel with the throne as a prize.

But then I think about their supports and how they play into it. Ferdinand's sees him realize that it's not just about glory to his family name, but doing something not based on putting his name in the history books. However that's in conflict with him joining Edelgard in order to restore his family, a selfish motive (also like that if he's fighting her, he says he rejected being her puppet). But in Caspar's, it's about how during White Clouds and how he went after a shady group of criminals and got some knights killed in the process. Byleth says at the time he shouldn't have done that, but Caspar says that children were in danger so he acted. He ultimately comes to not regret this, as his actions were motived by the safety of those kids and he would have regretted it if they had gotten hurt.

Now think about White Clouds, where the Agarthans are going around doing all their evil deeds and Caspar wants to take them out. Caspar's support would align more with him deciding to fight Edelgard and the Agarthans over what they did there, holding them accountable for their actions at the time and stopping them. His paralogue is about how he can't just let the Death Knight go and escape justice for his actions, while at the same time serves as a test of his strength. If Caspar fights Edelgard, he then goes off on his own, doesn't take over his family titles and jumps in whenever he sees people in trouble. The translation paints that ending in a more negative light than the Japanese, labelling the others involved as his victims, while at the same time making him out to be a more able commander in his Flower endings where he begins invading other countries for Edelgard.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand's paralogue reveals how his father was a scapegoat for Arundel's actions and pushing how extreme Edelgard's rule is. People are starving and being conscripted against their will. People who resist are executed, whereas Flower talks about the unrest in the Empire. We also know that there are some resistance groups fighting Edelgard's rule, Caspar joining one of them. He also exemplifies what people are supposed to do when faced hadou, overthrow the leader which is seen as justice, though this was altered in the translation to make him seem like he's not thinking and just following orders.

These two characters are connected, both linked to Seteth blessing their family. Seteth's crest is tied to the Justice arcana, so if you think about it like that both of them are linked to the concept of justice as well. With Caspar,it's about punishing evil, not trying to justify it. That when you see someone doing something wrong, do something about it rather than some form of wait and see. You saw the Agarthans and Flame Emperor do wrong in White Clouds, you should act on that.

Ferdinand arc is about doing the right things for the sake of the people even if he won't be rewarded for it. And if you think about that theme, really, it's calling out the concept of meritocracy where people will work hard in order to be recognized. It makes the system one fuelled by selfish desires rather than actually helping out your fellow men, to put yourself above them just like how Ferdinand expresses in his support with Edelgard how the nobility are superior people because their upbringing pushed them to excel. Granted, we also see that Edelgard does not actually reward commoners for their contributions to the war, not even Byleth, showing how her reforms ultimately don't empower the people but simply empower her.

These two characters provide some of the deepest counters to Edelgard rhetoric and they're just so hard to unlock aside from playing the BE house. And the fact their paralogues aren't available to them in Flower should say something, just like Byleth's.

I also think there may be something between Bernie and Hanneman sharing Gamera's crest. Mainly how they both run away from the nobility in their own ways, finding their own means of retreat when the system is too much for them. Bernie ran to her room when the pressure of her father's wife training, Greg trying to sell her off for his own profit, was too much for her whereas Hanneman ran to his research following his sister's death after she was bred to death in order to try and produce Crested children. While both show the emphasis people put on Crests, they also show that having a Crest does not make you a leader on it's own. Hanneman left without issue, Bernie was never trained to be a leader just a submissive wife. And it reflects Indect leaving to chill in his lake.

[yumeka36]

Black Myth Wukong

I finally finished my (mostly) all-bosses playthrough of Black Myth Wukong. Since a lot of my favorite streamers were playing it, and it looked intriguing from the trailer, I wanted to give it a try once I had my fill of the Elden Ring DLC. It took me a month to beat the game (I only had time to play about 2-3 hours a day).

Overall, I enjoyed the game immensely. Give me a game with really cool and creative monster designs, plus pretty, scenic areas to explore, and I'm happy! The combat is really fun too - the mix of spells, melee attacks, transformations, stance styles, etc, gives you such a variety of ways to play. Plus the fact that you can respec anytime removes the pressure of committing to one build. But honestly, I kinda stuck with the same build the whole game, lol. I focused most of my skill points on health, defense, attack, Immobilize, and Pluck of Many, as well as putting all my Mind Cores into the same, plus mana. This got me through basically all of the game with relative ease. Actually, either I got overpowered or the game wasn't that difficult for me, since by mid-chapter 2, almost every boss was a first or second try victory for me. Only exceptions were the Loongs and few chapter finale bosses and secret area bosses who took a few tries more. Then there was Erlang, who took me at least 30+ tries over 3 hours and was one of the hardest bosses I've fought in any game (coming from someone who's fought every boss in Elden Ring, Sekiro, Bloodborne, and the Dark Souls trilogy). So yeah, don't want to see that guy again anytime soon.

The only time I respeced a bit was to put more points into four banes resistance against Erlang. But I was also dumb and didn't realize there was a Drink to restore Qi, which was what I really needed to get rid of his shields with the fan vessel. But I still died a few times even after figuring this out, so I think he's just a really difficult boss.

While I enjoyed the heck out of the gameplay, unfortunately I couldn't follow the story/lore well at all. Obviously this is because I know close to nothing about Journey to the West or Chinese mythology. So while I understood the basic premise of finding Wukong's relics throughout the land, everything else as far as who the characters were, what their relationship is to Wukong and each other, and why they're doing what they're doing, was totally lost to me. Even after watching a "story explained" video, it's very clear that the game is a true sequel to Journey to the West, and you're guaranteed to be lost about most things if you haven't read the book. But the fact that I still enjoyed the game despite this just shows how fun it is. If I enjoy the gameplay mechanics, not being able to follow the story isn't that big a deal to me. Also, the animated music videos between each chapter were amazing. My favorite is the one for chapter 3, which was so well choreographed but also deliciously horrifying.

Like I do with most games, I wanted to make sure I beat every boss and explored every area the game had to offer. But I also didn't want to follow a walkthrough religiously either (which is something I did in my early days of gaming with the Dark Souls games). Other than look up a boss list and where to find them, I played the game mostly blind until around chapter 4. I was upset when I realized I had missed key things in chapter 3, which was being able to fight the Apramana Bat and Rat Captain bosses, as well as attain the Auspicious Lantern curio from the Lantern Wardens (I did fight a couple of them, but then decided to avoid them once I got yeeted off the cliff, lol). So from that point on I carefully checked IGN's walkthrough as I explored each area. Thankfully those were the only two bosses I missed during the rest of my playthrough. But damn, does this game have so many hidden secrets! I can't imagine anyone finding all the bosses/secret areas without looking it up online.

I guess that's one complaint I have about the game...maybe the secrets are too secret? Like I said, I don't know how a player is expected to figure some of these things out if playing normally. Maybe some more hinting about how to access the secret bosses and areas would have been nice, even if it's just some NPC dialogue or more elaborate item descriptions. I also don't like that they hid an essential thing like armor upgrades behind a questline that's so easily missable. A couple other minor issues I had were forcing cutscenes in the middle of fights and your character being way too prone to stagger with few ways to increase Tenacity, resulting in many wasted mana and focus point attacks (why is Tenacity not part of the skill tree?) But again, these were just minor issues and took little away from my overall enjoyment.

So yeah, I highly recommend Black Myth Wukong if you like fantasy adventure games focused on boss battles and various combat styles.