#louisiana power & light

[fatummortem]

I'll be taking a break from working on my muse notes today & pushing out more things after a few chores. Toss this a like if you'd like something in your ask. Pls lemme know which muse(s).

[stone-cold-groove]

This symbol means power for the future...

[rebelliousstories]

Rightful Spot

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by Anon

Warnings: Fluff, Brief Angst, Mentions of Fighting

Word Count: 1,521

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: After coming back to his timeline and finally joining in on missions, Remy underestimated how powerful cuddles could be.

Consider Donating: Here

Looking back on it now, he could have stuck that landing better. However, the circumstances leading to him having to stick a landing were a bit unforgiving, so it should not have been terribly surprising. Still, falling from the sky and rolling into a dark alleyway was not how Remy wanted his welcome home to be.

He could not complain though. Remy was home. He was back in his own universe, and now had a renewed sense of purpose. Stumbling out into where he could see lights, familiar sights and sounds greeted him like old friends. New Orleans, Louisiana; home sweet home. Gambit was on Bourbon Street, which was always hustling and bustling.

His feet began the trek to who knows where. All he knew was that they were going some place familiar and safe. The man ducked and weaved, making his way effortlessly through the crowds. In his hands, a card was always there, just in case. Further and further from the crowds, his feet took him. Down to where there were some apartment buildings, his brain finally started catching up with his feet. Taking over, Remy bolted up to the top, and began to run across the rooftops to his destination.

Dropping onto the fire escape, he thanked whatever was out there that he managed to keep mostly quiet. Peaking inside the window, he was shocked to see someone was still awake. In fact, multiple someone���s had been awake and moving about the apartment. Remy could not hear what was being said, but he knew those faces. Scott with his red glasses, and Jean with her matching red hair, Storm with her flowing white locks, and her. His cher was sitting there entertaining them all.

She looked like she was exhausted. Not from sleep, but mentally and emotionally tired. She looked like how Remy felt being in the Void. In her hands was a mug of something warm, probably that tea she likes to drink, and one of Gambit’s jackets around her. His heart tugged at the sight, and his lips curled in a smile. She never did do well with the cold.

Picking the lock on the window, Remy silently creeped into the apartment. Their eyes had not noticed the new person in the apartment, but he noticed how quiet it had gotten. Before he could speak, his body was suspended in the air as Jean turned to face the man. But she gasped in shock and let the man go almost immediately. The rest of the party was just a second behind her.

“Now, that ain’t no way to treat da Gambit, no?” His hands began massaging his body as the other people finally reacted to the new arrival. He heard her voice whisper out his name as he stood once more.

“Cher, I’m home. I’m so sorry.” But before he got any closer, Scott stepped in front of the ladies.

“If you really are Gambit, what’s something only he would know, huh? What was the last thing he said to me?” Scott pressed, worried that this might be an imposter.

“Cyclops, really? I just got back, mon ami. We really gonna have us an inquisition right now?” But the man was not swayed.

“What was the last thing Gambit told me?”

The Cajun was looked around for someone to support him not doing this, and just wanted to lay his eyes on his girl again. But he groaned, and wiped a hand over his face in frustration.

“Gambit told ya, ‘I’ll go on the mission. Jean needs ya here. Tell my cher dat I love her.’ That was the last thing I told ya before leaving for that damn mission to go so some recon on the brotherhood.” Everyone stood down. But Scott was still unimpressed.

“Where have you been all this time? And why only come back now?” He continued, even though Jean was tugging at his sleeve.

“Went on dat mission, and touched down in da forest. Didn’t find no brotherhood, but instead some people called da TVA takin’ bunch o’ dem out. Next thing I know, I wake up in da desert in some place called the Void. Been der evea’ since. Den a Deadpool and a Wolverine fought to leave the Void, and bargained for my freedom to come back as well as others. Believe me now, Scott?” Remy was getting fed up with answering questions. All he wanted was to get her in his arms.

Before anyone could speak again, he was nearly knocked over by the weight and force of something hitting him hard and fast. Remy regained his balance and looked down to see his girl squeezing him tight. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Hands landed on his arms, and he found Scott and Jean there on one side, with Storm on the other. Remy pulled the rest of the gang close as he relished this moment he never expected to have again.

After a few months of training, flying back to New York to go live at the school again, and a brief adjustment period to not always being on edge about who or what was going to find him, Gambit was back in the field. He did not do solo missions anymore, but he was excelling in team exercises again. This last one had kicked everyone’s butt though.

What was meant to be a simple mission of going down to help stop a mutant riot in the city, turned into a full scale brawl with the Brotherhood. In the end, they had eventually stopped the riot, but not without acquiring some scratches and bumps. The flight back to the school was a silent one; one where everyone that was not navigating the plane just wanted to rest with their eyes closed, and their brain off.

It was a smooth landing, which was a blessing. But having to walk back up was a curse. Every bone felt ten times heavier, and their feet felt like they were made of lead, but they did it. Bidding his teammates adieu, Remy continued his climb to where their room was. Thankfully, she had moved back into the mansion, having left when Remy disappeared, and was staying in their old room together. It was just like no time had passed.

Creaking the door open, he was delighted to see that she was folding some laundry with music playing somewhere in the background. Upon hearing the footsteps, she looked up, smiled, and abandoned her task.

“Remy, you’re home! Are you alright?” Her arms wrapped around him in a tight hug that made him groan.

“Ease up, cher. Ol’ Gambit done had the card house dropped on him.” Pulling away, she saw that a bruise was starting to form right underneath his chin. She traced a feather light touch over it, and furrowed her brows.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” She pleaded, worried to see what other marks he had gained in the afternoon that he had been gone.

“Non, cher. Just finish wit’ dem clothes so we can lay down, yeah? Gonna go get out of my suit now.” Gambit pressed a kiss to her lips, but was careful over the split he felt in the corner. While he went to the bathroom to change, she resumed her task of getting the laundry done.

Her mind was distracted, and worried about her lover that was just on the other side of the door. She could hear his groans and hisses, especially once the water started and he was underneath the stream. Setting out a loose shirt, and an equally loose pair of pajama pants, she went to work putting the rest of the clothes away while waiting for him to come out.

The door opened, and she just had to turn to see. Bruises started darkening already, and there were some minor scrapes, but that seemed to be the brunt of his injuries. With a towel loose around his hips, he grabbed the clothes from the bed, and sent his lover a wink. Not a seductive or even teasing wink, but rather a way to say thank you. He disappeared back into the bathroom, and she changed herself to something a bit more comfortable. As she was pulling the covers back from the bed, Remy emerged once more, with damp hair, and a fresh set of clothes on.

Gambit crawled into the plush bed, and sunk into it with a groan. She giggled, but crawled in beside her lover all the same. His arms, no matter how bruised or sore, opened wide to accept her right where she was supposed to be. They were facing each other, and her hands were tucked up against his chest to keep her close. One arm under her neck, and one around her waist, Remy kept her as close as humanly possible.

“Je t’aime, cher.” Remy whispered, pressing a kiss to her hairline as they began to drift off.

“I love you too, Remy.” She replied, feeling perfectly at peace in her spot with her lover.

[redvexillum]

I feel like the way I portray Alastor is all in the spectrum of Yandare. So, I tried my best to write...yandare Alastor in a way it makes sense for my head canon of him. I want to give a quick shout out to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe ! I thought the best way to welcome her is dedicating this unhinged Alastor story to her!

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, dub con, obsessive!alastor, p in v, gentle sex, gaslighting, entrapment, breeding kink, psychological, dark, mental torment, unhealthy relationship, orgasm denial, power dynamic, unhinged!alastor, reader is not okay, implied cannibalism, suicidal thoughts, depression, reader is delulu, alastor is delulu, extreme co-dependency, extreme denial, yandare!alastor

🙏 please mind your mental health before you read 🙏

The thought curled through you like poison, clinging to every corner of your mind: you wanted to die.  

It was a siren song, cruel and haunting, a whisper that slithered deep into the crumbling fortress of your mind, eroding the defences you’d built to keep it out. Your hands shook as exhaustion seeped into every crack; bones weary from a battle that felt endless. It wasn’t just tiredness – it was a soul-deep weight, a leaden heaviness that hollowed you out.  

In the background, soft jazz played from the kitchen, each note swirling with a warmth that felt so alien in the cold void within you. Sunlight poured through the window, a golden river that washed over everything it touched, indifferent to the shadows lurking within.  

You noticed the knife on the counter – a sharp gleam that seemed to pulse with a dangerous allure, its polished blade catching the light with a slick, almost wet shine. It seemed to call out to you, offering a quick, dreamless eternity.  

But even as your gaze lingered, your heart resisted, tethered stubbornly to someone who’d become both your prison and sanctuary. 

Alastor.  

A man you never should have crossed paths with. A man you should never have fallen for.  

You sighed, holding the knife as you turned back to the chunk of meat. Its once bright crimson flesh changing to a dull, dead brown. The raw smell was overwhelming, thick and nearly spoiled in the oppressive Louisiana heat. Alastor left you with some tasks today, after you had begged him to give you something to do as you wait for his return. Your task was to package the meat, clean up the kitchen, polish the floor while you waited for his return.  

The smell of raw meat brought images to flicker through your mind: men and women, faces frozen in terror as Alastor dragged them down to the cellar. A shiver ran down your spine, and a small whimper escaped, a whisper of fear against the tears that threatened to fall. You tore your gaze away from the knife and forced yourself to look outside. The bayou stretched out beyond the window, a bleak expanse of gnarly trees and dark water – silent, desolate, and as inescapable as him.  

You took a steadying breath, mentally reciting the day’s tasks like a prayer to keep you grounded. Finish the meat, scrub the blood stains, bleach the floor, and when the last crimson smear was gone, he’d return. By then, you’d be ready, composed. With a sniff, you shoved your feelings back, burying them under the monotony of chores.  

Finally, when every trace of red erased from the floor, you heard the front door click open. The sound echoed, a rhythmic click-click-click, each lock sliding free, the metal grating sharply against the silence. Your heart skipped as the door creaked, and there he stood – Alastor, haloed in the setting sun. His smile was gentle, but his eyes gleamed as he opened his arms.  

“My love,” he murmured, setting down his bag and slipping off his coat with an air of practised ease.  

You scrambled to your feet, the memory still fresh from the last time you hadn’t been there to greet him. He had panicked, refusing to leave your side for days. He held you then, whispering sweet words of devotion, his arms an unyielding cage, each word sinking deeper until it was all you knew. You didn’t know if he knew the truth – that every word bound you closer even as you longed to escape.  

Fear wrapped around you, yet somewhere deep within, in a place even you struggled to reach, you needed him. The years of isolation had stripped you bare, leaving only the two of you locked in this strange dance.  

Five years – five years of him as your only constant, your only company in this void. That had to be love. It was the only way to make sense of why you stayed, why you remained bound to him by something more powerful than chains.  

It had to be love.  

“Alastor,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, legs shaking from hours of kneeling on the hard floor, scrubbing away every crimson stain. You took a step forward, the chilling clink of metal grazing the wood beneath your feet with each uneven, hesitant step. The floorboards seemed to pulse below you, each creak an echo of your own heartbeat, until finally, you stopped, frozen four steps away from the exit.  

He chuckled – a warm, resonant sound that should have been comforting but only heightened the chill trickling down your spine. With graceful steps, Alastor closed the distance between you, his arms circling around your shoulders. His chin rested gently against your head, the weight of him grounding you in place, his presence washing over you like a tide you couldn’t escape.  

“I missed you,” you mumbled against his chest, nuzzling into his embrace. The heat of him, the solid reassurance of his touch, brought you back to yourself, to the one undeniable truth of your existence: you were here, alive, because he held you tethered. “Did you have a good day at work, my love?” you murmured, soft and tentative.  

His hand slid over the back of your head; fingers gentle as he stroked you. He breathed in deeply, a wistful sigh slipping from his lips. “My love, you never left my thoughts for a single moment.” His voice was soft, warm, and his arms tightened around you, so tightly that for a second, you felt as though the air was slipping away.  

Finally, he parted, just enough for you to breathe again, his fingers grazing along the warm curve of your cheek. “Let’s get you out of that, hmm?” His voice was gentle, and his whisky-brown eyes glittered with a kindness that made your chest ache.  

A swell of relief surged in you, and you threw your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Alastor, thank you!” Laughter bubbled out of you, bright and involuntary, stretching your lips into a smile that felt foreign, almost unbelievable after everything.  

He lifted you effortlessly, his strength both exhilarating and terrifying as he carried you toward the couch. Each step sent the faintest clinking of metal into the air, a reminder of the bond that held you captive.  

As he set you down and took a step back, you could feel his gaze moving over you, slow and deliberate, like he could peel back each layer with a single look. You flushed under his scrutiny, your shoulders curling inward, a strange blend of shame and need warring within you. Despite your clothes, under his gaze you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could read every thought you’d ever dared to keep from him.  

“Cher,” he murmured, his hand drifting over the outside of your calf, fingers tracing a path until they reached your ankle.  

You heard the fabric rustling, and then – there it was, glinting between his fingers: a silver key. Your eyes focused on the key, and your heart skipped, hope blooming like wildflowers in a barren field. The promise of freedom lay in that tiny object, so close and yet, a lifetime away. You watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he took your ankle in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your bare foot. It was a reminder of the first time he’d ordered you to go without socks when you first escaped from this manacle.  

He slid the key into the lock, and with a single twist, the manacle opened with the same familiar click that marked his return home every day. The cool metal fell away, clattering weakly to the floor. A rush of air hit the skin beneath, and you winced as blood surged back into your ankle, a dull ache flooding back into limbs so long constrained.  

The shackles lay there, lifeless on the floor, the physical proof of your captivity now nothing more than a scrap of metal, stripped of its power. And yet, as you looked up at him, his eyes shining with something both possessive and achingly tender, you realized you could never truly cast off the chains that bound you to him.  

Not as long as you believe you loved him.  

“Oh, my poor cher,” Alastor murmured, his voice thick with a twisted blend of regret and possessive tenderness as his eyes traced the dark bruises wrapping around your ankle. His lips brushed softly over the tender skin, lingering in a gentle, reverent kiss before his forehead rested against your leg.  

With his eyes closed, he sighed, pressing warmth into you. “It pains me,” he whispered, “to see even the slightest mark of discomfort on you.” His lips began a slow journey, grazing from your ankle upward along the sensitive skin of your inner calf, each kiss stealing a shiver from you. “But you understand, don’t you, cher? It’s a necessity.” 

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, their intense gaze sending a shudder through you. His position – kneeling between your legs – made it impossible to think straight. Despite being in a servile pose, he was still the master of your heart.  

“Yes...I understand,” you managed, your voice raspy and barely audible. His lips continued their climb, each kiss leaving a cool, tingling path against your skin. “But I’ve been good, Alastor.” Your breath hitched as his head came to rest in your lap, his fingers tracing languid circles along your thigh.  

He chuckled softly, low and indulgent. “You have been,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “Perhaps if you continue to behave...I might let you roam freely around the house when I’m not here.” He looked up, giving you a small, playful smile that made your heart stutter.  

The thought of moving freely, without the heavy, omnipresent clink of the chain dragging behind you, sent a thrill through your veins. You clenched your hands into fists, desperate to keep your excitement contained.  

“I can be good,” you whispered, fingers drifting to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you stroked his head. “I can be good for you, Alastor...” 

A groan escaped him, his eyes falling shut as he leaned into your touch, savouring the sensation like a man starving. Emboldened, you took a breath, letting words slip out – words you’d held back for so long, daring to hope he might grant them.  

“Maybe...” you hesitated, voice barely a murmur. “Maybe sometimes in the distant future, I could go into t-town with you?” Your fingers froze in his hair as his body tensed, muscles stiffening under your touch. You held your breath, dread and hope tangling within you, afraid you’d crossed some unseen line. Alastor’s overprotective streak was ironclad – whenever he sensed a threat, real or imagined, his vigilance would lock you down even more tightly than before.  

A heartbeat passed before he spoke. “Perhaps...” He rose to his feet slowly, drawing you up with him, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Perhaps one day, cher.” His hands slid under your legs, lifting you from the couch, his grip firm and desirous. “But for now...” he trailed off, leaving the sentence open, thick with suggestion as he carried you up the stairs.  

The scent of him, rich and intoxicating, filled your senses, mingling with the sharp, metallic undertone of old blood. Recently, he had brought up the idea of family, his eyes lighting with a dark kind of joy when he saw your loneliness. The house felt hollow most days, empty but for him, and he’d suggested a child - a little soul to fill the silent rooms.  

At first, the notion had left you reeling, uncertain, but the longer you were left alone with only your thoughts, the more the idea began to take root. Its appeal started to bloom uncontrollably like weeds in your mind.  

Now, Alastor and you spent every waking moment together in his bed, until your wishes took fruit.  

He lowered you onto the bed with an almost reverent tenderness, as though each touch was sacred, each look a silent promise. He shed his clothes slowly, his eyes never leaving you as his skin emerged, bare and raw. By the time he climbed onto bed, leaning over you, his desire was unmistakable – his cock hardening just from watching you laid out beneath him.  

He hovered for a moment, his face close to yours, and his gaze softened as his hand brushed along your cheek. “Cher,” he murmured, a plea woven into his tone, his voice low and thick. His fingers traced down the side of your face as though memorizing you by touch alone. “Will you let me...feel you tonight?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, slow and lingering, each word like a promise. “For the rest of the night?” His hips lowered, pressing himself against your thigh, his warmth branding you.  

Heat flared through you, your body’s response instant and shameless. Every part of you remembered him – his hands, his mouth, the way he claimed you until the world slipped away. Your body answered before your mind could, a warmth pooling low in your stomach as he lifted the hem of your dress, slowly baring your skin. You sat up, letting the fabric fall away, and his eyes flickered, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts. Your only cover now a thin piece of cloth hiding the most intimate part of you.  

Alastor’s grin widened, his gaze roving from the pebbled peaks of your nipples down to the damp fabric between your thighs. His hands traced down, catching the waistband and tugging it free. His touch lingered over each inch of exposed skin as he pulled it over your thighs, past the bruises on your ankle, until you lay just as bare before him.  

Your legs fell open, your slick folds glistening in invitation, your body traitorous in its eagerness. Alastor’s eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around his cock as he gripped himself, slow strokes stoking his own arousal as he stared, captivated by your wetness. 

“The thought of you carrying my child, cher...it drives me mad.” His voice was a rough whisper, his breaths shallow as he stroked himself harder, faster, his eyes on your throbbing core. “It drives me to the edge,” he murmured, his grin feral as he leaned closer, his gaze smouldering with dark intent. “Drives me to the point of bloodlust,” his adam’s apple bobbed up then down, his grin trembling as it couldn’t stretch further lest it tore through his cheeks.  

You swallowed, your pulse quickening at the edge of his words, at the memory of the shadows he kept hidden – the bloodstained cellar, the bodies you helped him to clean. Whether you were here or not, you knew he would continue to kill, as relentless and ruthless as ever.  

"Ah, cher,” he sighed, settling his body over yours, his hard length pressing flush against your entrance, teasing you with his warmth. “Cher, cher, cher,” he murmured, his voice a low chuckle as he brushed his fingers through your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. “Why do you have to be so lovely?” His nose skimmed your hairline, nuzzling his way to your temple, where he pressed a slow, heated kiss. “Why do you tempt me like this?” 

“You’re all I think about, dream about,” he murmured, his voice honey-sweet as he pressed his mouth against your skin, each word a whisper trailing down your cheek, your neck, and finally, open-mouthed and lingering on the curve of your breast. “So much so, cher, that I sometimes imagine killing you.” His tone was soft, unsettlingly jovial as though he’d confessed a secret desire, his hands tracing delicate patterns over your skin.  

Your heart pounded, memories flashing across your mind like dark, haunted snapshots – the cellar door muffling desperate cries, the hollow silence that followed. The scent of blood hung thick in those memories, the darkness swallowing up the faces that haunted you. Your hands trembled, a pulse of fear mingling with something deeper, something you could barely acknowledge.  

“But I won’t,” he murmured against your skin, pulling you from the spiral of those memories. He lifted his hand to catch a tear that had slipped from your eye, his thumb brushing it away softly. He gazed at the glistening drop before licking it from his fingertip, his eyes darkened as he held you captive in his gaze. “I would never hurt you, cher. Have I ever hurt you?” His voice was quiet, coaxing yet intense, his question leaving no room for escape.  

His eyes burned into yours, searching, unwavering. “Tell me, cher,” he pressed, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with a demand that made your pulse stutter. “Do you see me as a bad man?”  

There were moments when Alastor felt so delicate, so gentle that he might as well have been made of glass, every touch featherlight. But there were others, moments like this, when he shifted – his possessive grip, his words, his gaze – all dark and consuming. When he asked these questions, you felt like a bird trapped in his cage, heart fluttering as you tried to find the right words.  

Your lips quivered, unable to form a reply, the silence thick as more tears slipped down your cheeks. Alastor’s gaze softened just slightly, and he gathered you close, arms wrapping around you as he rocked you, as if you were a fragile, precious thing in his hold. “Shh,” he whispered, his lips against your hair, “I love you, cher. I love you, I love you,” he repeated, his voice lilting like a lullaby.  

Your mind fractured, the edge of your memories sharp, each fragment glinting in the dark recesses of your mind. You reached out within yourself, searching, groping for the piece of you that had loved him first – the man you’d met one hazy night at the speakeasy, the man who seemed to light up the room just by existing.  

Slowly, you let your hands drift to his back, your fingers pressing against the warmth of his skin. Your eyes closed, more tears slipping free as you tried to remember the feeling of joy, of laughter that you’d felt with him. Your lips brushed against his shoulder, a tentative sign of trust as he sighed, his body relaxing under your touch.  

You dug deeper, sifting through memories of that laughter, of your first dance, your first kiss – all those quiet, gentle confessions that had once coloured his eyes in soft brows. You found yourself on your knees, clutching at those fragments with desperate hands, determined to recall the moments when his touch had felt safe, cherished.  

“Shh,” Alastor’s mouth hovered over yours, his lips ghosting against yours, a barely there whisper of warmth. “It’s alright, cher. I have you.” He guided himself against you, pressing gently, his cock slipping slowly into your wet, pulsing heat. His mouth melded to yours as his tongue traced along the seam of your lips, savouring each taste as his low moans mingled with your soft gasps.  

A hum escaped him, rich and satisfied, as he sank into you, his body pressed to yours, filling you with a quiet intensity that left you breathless. The salted trails on your cheeks lingered as your lips curved into a slow smile, your legs parting, welcoming him deeper, your heart opening despite everything, the echoes of his whispers filling the night.  

“Good girl,” Alastor groaned, his hips pushing forward, stretching you around the hard, unyielding thickness of him. “Oh, cher, you’re perfect for me,” he murmured, his words a deep, reverent moan as he sank in deeper, inch by inch, until he was completely enveloped. His hands settled possessively on your hip, his eyes devouring the sight of you.  

“I’m going to fill you with my seed all night, love,” he purred, rolling his hips with a languid, maddening rhythm. “After all, your body is begging me to take you – wouldn't you say?” His voice rose with playful amusement, the bed creaking beneath you as if echoing his delight.  

“Yes,” you gasped, breathless, the sensation of him making you tremble. “Please,” you whispered, your nails pressing into his shoulders, urging him closer. Alastor drew his hips back slowly, agonizingly, until only the tip of him remained, only to push back in, the pace deliberate, every inch of him dragging against you with intent. Each movement seemed to ignite a new flame within you, stretching your pleasure, drawing it out until it was almost unbearable.  

“Look how good you are for me,” he whispered against your flushed cheek, his lips tracing his words into your skin. “Look how perfect you are,” he breathed, sinking deeper as he tightened his arms around you, locking you into his rhythm. “No one will understand you the way I do. You were destined to be mine.” His voice was rich, warm, but tinged with darkness that was both thrilling and terrifying.  

“Al-Alastor,” you whimpered, each thrust stoking the tension building inside, reaching deeper, pulling you into a spiral of desire and delirium. His moans, his heated words, his relentless pace – all of it washed over you like a fevered dream. Each breath, each sigh and whispered praise tangled together in a symphony of need.  

The creaking of the bed became louder, and with a sudden surge, he lifted himself, teeth gritted, and drove into you harder. His hips snapped against yours; his pace relentless.  

“Cher...cher...” he growled, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he focused on you, his gaze hungry. “That’s right, cher,” he chuckled breathlessly, each laugh broken by the sound of his hips smacking against your own. “Oh, you’d make a perfect mother,” he panted, his words nearly incoherent as he picked up his pace. The final thrust left you both gasping, his grip on you tightening as he finally reached his own release, filling you with powerful, pulsing bursts of warmth.  

You moaned in frustration, your pleasure still simmering, unsatisfied, leaving your skin taut with need. You tried to move, but Alastor held you firmly, pressing himself deep inside, his body still wrapped around yours.  

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face as he slowly softened within you, the warm rush of his seed starting to trickle down. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slipped to your entrance, pressing lightly to try and keep every last drop inside, as if marking you as his.  

Lying on his side beside you, he gazed at you, his expression gentle as he took in your flushed, tear-streaked cheeks, still needy with unfulfilled desire. A smile tugged at his lips when you also turned to your side to face him. His eyes drifted down, and you knew he was watching his own essence escape, sluggishly slipping down and pooling on your inner thighs. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.  

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said quietly, his voice low and calming. “I’ll take care of you, again and again, tonight.” He withdrew his fingers, now slicked with his and your arousal. “Until your body takes my seed, we’ll keep trying,” he promised, his gaze flickering down between you both before meeting yours with a playful, boyish grin.  

With a breath that finally began to steady, you raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek tenderly. He turned to press a gentle kiss to your palm, a quiet moment of warmth shared in the aftermath.  

In moments like these, in the field of fractured memories, you saw one shard glinting brighter than the rest, pulling you toward it. It was a piece of you – something essential, something more truthful and dangerous than anything else. It shimmered with dark clarity, cutting through the shadows of doubt and lingering despair. 

You drifted past the memories that still haunted you, not quite registering the images that flooded your mind. Alastor’s eyes, once warm, turning nearly black with fury the night you tried to leave, his grip like iron as he vowed you’d belong to him. You passed by the moment he chained you to the cellar walls, his victims mere echoes in the darkness, his voice soothingly venomous, telling you that no one else could ever understand you as he did.  

Each scar those memories left on your soul was still fresh, a raw edge in the depths of your mind, fragments of yourself that would never heal.  

But in this one shard – this singular piece of undeniable truth – you saw something more. It was in these quiet, raw moments after he’d loved you, held you close, his breath mingling with yours. It was here, next to him in the aftermath, that you could almost believe he was the only soul in this world who would ever love you with such consuming fervour.  

You dragged your body closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, as his arms immediately circled protectively around you. His eyes softened as you leaned closer, drawing him into a gentle kiss. Your lips grazing his in a tender, slow exchange that felt achingly real. His fingers traced up and down your back, as if branding his name on your skin.  

In this quiet, lonely world, he was your guiding light, a burning soul who consumed all but left you somehow whole. You wanted to hold on to him, to keep him by your side. You feared whatever darkness lurked beyond Alastor, the fear of the unknown paled in comparison to the thought of leaving the one person who had vowed to love every fractured, scarred piece of you.  

He needed you, just as much as you needed him.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[mariacallous]

Most of the time, as the senior rabbi of Temple Beth-El in San Antonio, Rabbi Mara Nathan’s focus is on Jewish families. But this week, she’s finding herself thinking about Christian ones, too.

That’s because Texas is poised to adopt a public school curriculum that refers to Jesus as “the Messiah,” asks kindergartners to study the Sermon on the Mount and presents the Crusades in a positive light.

The curriculum, Nathan said, “gives Christian children the sense that their family’s religion is the only true religion, which is not appropriate for public school education, at the very least.”

Nathan is among the many Texans raising concerns about the proposed reading curriculum as it nears final approval. Earlier this week, the Texas State Board of Education narrowly voted to proceed with the curriculum, called Bluebonnet Learning. A final vote is set for Friday.

The critics, who include Jewish parents and organizations as well as interfaith and education advocacy groups, say Bluebonnet — which will be optional but which schools would be paid to adopt — inappropriately centers on Christian theology and ideas. They have been lobbying for revisions since it was first proposed in May, offering detailed feedback.

“The first round of the curriculum that we saw honestly had a lot of offensive content in it, and was proselytizing, and did not represent Jewish people well,” said Lisa Epstein, the director of San Antonio’s Jewish Community Relations Council.

Now those critics say most of their specific suggestions have been accepted but they remain concerned.

“Looking at the revision, we still feel that the curriculum is not balanced and it introduces a lot of Christian concepts at a very young age, like resurrection and the blood of Christ and the Messiah, when kids are just really too young to understand and they don’t really have a grasp yet completely of their own religion,” she added. Epstein, who testified at a hearing on the proposal in Austin on Monday, has a child in high school and two others who graduated from Texas public schools.

The Texas vote comes as advocates of inserting Christianity into public education are ascendant across the country. Political conservatives are in power at the national level and the Supreme Court’s conservative supermajority has demonstrated openness to blurring church-state separation.

President-elect Donald Trump has signaled support for numerous initiatives to reintroduce Christian doctrine into public schools, from supporting school prayer to endorsing legislation that would require public school classrooms to display the Ten Commandments. (One such measure in Louisiana was recently blocked by a federal judge.)

In Texas, Bluebonnet’s advocates say the curriculum would elevate students’ learning while also exposing them to essential elements of cultural literacy. They note that the curriculum includes references to a wide range of cultures, including ancient religions, and that the religious references make up only a small fraction of the material.

“They’ll elevate the quality of education being offered to all Texas students by giving them a well-rounded understanding of important texts and their impact on the world,” Megan Benton, a strategic policy associate at Texas Values, which says its mission is “to stand for biblical, Judeo-Christian values,” said during the hearing on Monday, Education Week reported. Texas Values called criticism of the proposed curriculum an “attack on the Bible.”

The Texas Education Authority solicited the proposed curriculum, which would join a menu of approved options, as part of a pandemic-era effort that waived some transparency laws, meaning that its authors are not fully known. But The 74, an education news organization, reported this week that a publishing company co-founded by former Arkansas Gov. Mike Huckabee contributed content to the curriculum.

Trump tapped Huckabee, a pastor and evangelical favorite, last week to become his ambassador to Israel.

For some in Texas and beyond, Bluebonnet represents a concrete example of how the national climate could ripple out into local changes.

“A lot of things, we think they’re outside of our community, or outside of our scope, like we hear these things, but are they really going to impact us?” said a Jewish assistant principal in the Richardson Independent School District north of Dallas who asked to remain anonymous. “But I think now that it’s becoming a potential reality, a friend was asking me, would Richardson adopt this? Is this something that is really going to happen in our community?”

While the Supreme Court has ruled that public schools can teach about religion, they cannot prioritize one religion over another in that instruction. So Bluebonnet’s inclusion of Christian and Bible stories in lesson plans drew scrutiny from the start — which grew after the Texas Tribune reported that a panel required to vet all curriculum proposals included Christian proponents of incorporating religion in public education.

In September, The Texas Education Authority’s curriculum review board published hundreds of pages of emails from members of the public along with whether the critiques had resulted in changes. Some did, the board noted, but many others were rejected.

A coalition of Jewish groups submitted 37 requested changes to the initial curriculum proposal. Epstein said the San Antonio JCRC had specifically objected to language in some lessons that evoked “antisemitic tropes” and textual inaccuracies in referencing the story of Queen Esther, as well as offensive references to the Crusades and language that explained the birth of Jesus as the messiah.

One passage had invited students to imagine “if you were a Crusader,” Epstein said, referring to the Christian knights of the Middle Ages who sought to conquer the Holy Land, massacred communities of Jews and are venerated by some on the Christian right.

In the case of the Esther lesson, the original curriculum had recreated an aspect of the Purim story in which Haman drew lots to determine when to kill Jews in the Persian Empire — as a way to teach probability. Nathan called that particular lesson “subversively antisemitic.”

“In ancient Persia [drawing lots] was a way of helping someone make a decision, and the game was called Purim,” the initial text read. “Ask students to choose a number from 1 to 6. Roll a die and ask the students to raise their hand if their number was rolled.”

“This is shocking, offensive and just plain wrong,” Sharyn Vane, a Jewish parent of two Texas public school graduates, said at a September hearing, according to the New York Times. “Do we ask elementary students to pretend to be Hitler?” (Historical simulations have widely been rejected by educators for all grades.)

Both of the lessons were revised after feedback from Jewish groups and others, but Epstein and Nathan said the changes were not adequate. A new prompt asks students to describe “the journey of a Crusader” in the third-person, but it still sanitizes the murder of many Jews and Christians during the Christian quest to conquer Jerusalem, Epstein charged.

And while the Purim lots activity was dropped, Epstein noted that a specific lesson plan about Esther — a beloved figure among evangelical Christians — also includes a reference to God, which the Megillah, the Jewish text telling the Purim story, famously does not do. She said that inaccuracy was not addressed in the revisions.

In a statement, San Antonio’s Jewish federation, under which the JCRC operates, also acknowledged the changes that were made after its feedback but expressed concern over what it called “an almost solely Christian-based” perspective with “inaccuracies” and content that is inappropriate for elementary school students.

“We are not against teaching a broad range of religious beliefs to children in an age-appropriate way that clearly distinguishes between ‘beliefs’ and ‘facts,’ and gives appropriate time and respect to acknowledging many different religions,” the federation said. “Public schools should be places where children of all religious backgrounds feel welcomed and accepted.”

The newer version of the curriculum also did not address the federation’s concerns about language referring to Jesus as “the Messiah,” written with a capital “M,” and references to “the Bible,” rather than “the Christian Bible” specifically, as the federation had urged the curriculum’s creators to adopt.

The Austin branch of the Anti-Defamation League, which was also involved in the efforts, also applauded the revisions that had been made thus far but said it still “reject[s] the current version of the proposed curriculum.”

“We agree that students should learn the historical contributions of various religious traditions, but ADL’s analysis of the originally proposed curriculum found that a narrow view of Christianity was overwhelmingly emphasized, there were few mentions of other faiths and the curriculum baselessly credited Christianity with improved societal morality,” the group said in a statement. “Although improvements have been made, the materials still appear to cross the line into teaching religion instead of teaching about religion.”

Criticism to the curriculum goes far beyond the Jewish community. Texas AFT, the state’s outpost of the American Federation of Teachers, a leading teachers’ union, also opposes the proposal. “Texas AFT believes that not only do these materials violate the separation of church and state and the academic freedom of our classroom, but also the sanctity of the teaching profession,” the union said in a statement.

Some Republicans on the Texas Board of Education expressed reservations about the curriculum’s quality and age-appropriateness, separate from its religious content.

And nonpartisan and interfaith groups like Texas Impact and Texas Freedom Network have also been involved in efforts to oppose the curriculum, as has the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty. Epstein said a Sikh parent also testified at one of the hearings, asking for her faith’s traditions to be incorporated into lesson plans to provide more religious perspectives.

Nathan said that when she testified against the proposal at a September hearing, her allies were diverse.

“Some of the people who were against it were not Jewish, and just were [against] the way that the curriculum was being put together pedagogically,” she said. “But there were both Jewish and non-Jewish people there, and also some Christian folks who were there who were opposed to such an overtly Christian curriculum.”

Marian Neleson, who has a 14-year-old daughter and a 12-year-old son in the Frisco Independent School District, said it has never been easy to be a Jewish family in her area.

“There’s always concerns as a parent when there’s just a handful of other Jewish children in a majority Christian school,” said Neleson, who is active in her local interfaith alliance. “From how the school celebrates, how they do their calendars. Do they remember that there is a Jewish holiday, and then they schedule major school functions on High Holy Days?”

Now, she’s worried that her own district could face pressure to adopt the new curriculum, if it is approved.

“These kind of curriculums are promoting one interpretation, one religion’s view, and I feel like that’s not very respectful of people who come from different backgrounds and different faiths and different religions,” Neleson said. She added, “I do think that the Frisco school district particularly does try to be inclusive and try to recognize the diversity of the community, but I know that there’s always pressure from groups who are trying to promote one agenda in the schools.”

The Richardson assistant principal said she saw in the financial incentive to adopt the curriculum — districts that do so will get up to $60 per student — an inappropriate assertion of support by the state. Many Texas districts are cash-strapped after legislators declined to substantially increase school funding last year.

“There is such a push in education for high-quality instructional materials,” said the assistant principal, who has three elementary school-aged children. “They’re pushing this so hard, and even potentially putting up funding for it if you adopt it, but it’s not a truly high-quality curriculum.”

In a Facebook post after Tuesday’s preliminary vote, Vane encouraged parents to reach out to members of the state’s education board to urge them to oppose the curriculum. “It’s not over yet,” she wrote.

Nathan said she’s not sure how much opponents of the curriculum can do if it’s approved, but she stressed the importance of local advocacy — especially since the curriculum is not required.

“I think reaching out to your local school board and communicating with local teachers in your community is going to be key,” she said. “If this occurs, what do I need to do in my local school district to make sure that there’s programming that balances the perspective?”

But she signaled that the intensity of the proposed curriculum would undercut any counter-programming by representatives of other faiths.

“It’s not presented as, ‘Here’s what Christians believe,’” Nathan said about Bluebonnet. “It’s presented as, ‘Here is the truth.’ There’s a difference.”

[urdreamydoodles]

hello, i hope you’re doing well! i’ve been following your blog for some time and i just wanna say i love your work! you’re such a talented writer and honestly you are the answer to my prayers!

i’d like to ask (and feel free to decline), could you write some gambit x reader x rogue (poly) headcanons? they’re both so hot and such good characters! again feel free to decline if you’re not interested! thank you so much <3

Remy LeBeau x Reader x Rogue (Poly) Headcanons

How is your relationship with Remy and Rogue

In your polyamorous relationship with Remy LeBeau and Rogue, the three of you share a dynamic that balances playful banter, deep affection, and mutual respect.

My favorite X-Men couple. I hope you like it <3

- Being in a relationship with both Remy and Rogue is as exhilarating as it is heartwarming. Remy, with his flirtatious charm, makes every day feel like an adventure, while Rogue’s protective, nurturing side grounds you all. Together, the three of you form a beautifully balanced dynamic where love, laughter, and passion intertwine in ways you could have never anticipated.

- Remy is always the instigator of spontaneous plans. Whether it's whisking you and Rogue off to a hidden bayou in Louisiana or planning a late-night rooftop picnic, he brings his sense of thrill and romance to the relationship. Rogue often goes along with his plans begrudgingly, but her eyes light up with anticipation the moment she sees you’re just as excited.

- Rogue is fiercely protective of both you and Remy. Her powers may make physical touch tricky, but she makes up for it with words and gestures, constantly reminding you both of how much you mean to her. She’ll wrap her arms around you two whenever she can, and though her touch is careful, you feel the warmth of her love as deeply as if there were no boundaries.

- Remy is a natural flirt, and it’s a game for him to see how he can make both you and Rogue blush. He’s full of playful winks and whispered compliments, his smooth, honeyed accent rolling off words that make your cheeks warm. Rogue, meanwhile, gives him a knowing eye-roll, but there’s no hiding her smile when he directs his charming words at you both.

- Even though Rogue has her reservations about her powers, she’s learned to be comfortable with you and Remy. The three of you have crafted a language of subtle touches, gestures, and careful embraces that express your affection without needing full physical contact. A gentle squeeze on her gloved hand, a quick brush against her shoulder—these small moments mean the world to her.

- When it comes to nights together, the tension between the three of you is palpable, building up slowly and leaving you breathless. Remy, ever the passionate one, finds ways to make you feel adored, drawing out every moment. He loves watching the way you and Rogue react, knowing that his attentions are making both of you melt in a shared moment of intimacy.

- Rogue takes her time when she lets her guard down with you and Remy in private moments. Her confidence in these shared moments is something she’s grown into, and she finds joy in showering you both with kisses through the fabric of her gloves. She may not be able to touch directly, but her affection is no less fierce, and her love radiates through every careful caress.

- Remy, being the gentleman he is, often takes the lead in romantic settings. He has a knack for knowing when both you and Rogue need comfort, desire, or simply a listening ear. When things get steamy, he’s attentive to every movement and reaction, taking his time to ensure that both you and Rogue are completely immersed in the moment, feeling loved and appreciated.

- On nights when Rogue feels more daring, she’ll let herself get a bit closer, her kisses lingering a little longer, the intensity deepening between the three of you. There’s an unspoken understanding that each touch is significant, each moment of closeness a testament to the trust and love you’ve built. For Rogue, these nights mean everything, a rare chance to express her passion without reservation.

- The three of you love cuddling together after a long day, though it’s a delicate process with Rogue’s powers. Remy’s arms around both of you, with Rogue carefully nestled against you, create a cozy tangle of warmth and comfort. These evenings are full of gentle laughter and soft whispers, all three of you sharing dreams and plans, feeling the deep connection that binds you together.

- Remy has a soft spot for surprising you and Rogue with little gifts. He’ll bring you a single wildflower he found or an antique trinket he picked up on a mission, his expression soft as he hands it over with a charming grin. Rogue, though embarrassed at first, often finds herself touched by his gestures, storing each token away with fondness—and with a growing collection of keepsakes that you both treasure.

- Rogue can be a bit of a tease, though it’s not as obvious as Remy’s flirting. She’ll make sarcastic remarks or playful jabs, only to flash you a knowing smile that makes your heart skip a beat. These moments reveal the lighter side of Rogue, her guard lowered as she relaxes into the relationship. You and Remy love seeing this side of her, knowing that her happiness comes from a place of deep trust.

- The three of you share a deep, emotional bond that goes beyond physical affection. Remy and Rogue each bring something unique to the relationship, creating a space of unconditional support and love. Whether it’s Remy’s boundless charm or Rogue’s quiet strength, you know that the three of you are stronger together, each of you lifting the others up, sharing joy and laughter, and creating a love that is truly extraordinary.

[wholoveseggs]

hi! ik youve done smth similar to this but i'd like to request like an enemy-to-lover elijahxreader with him just being an asshole. with eventual smut and teasing. ty!

The Gardener {Part One}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part One

The relationship between witches and vampires has always been fraught with complexity— a toxic mix of power and revenge. Raised to preserve nature’s balance, you’ve been taught that vampires are a perversion of life itself. You have a duty and a purpose, to eliminate all vampires. You're willing to do whatever it takes to fulfill it, even if that means falling into bed with the enemy.

♡♡ Thanks for the request beautiful anon! This is a story I've wanted to tell for a while, I hope y'all enjoy it...♡♡

3.7k words - Warnings: no smut in this one, but lots of drama, angst, violence and deception... reader is a bit of a fanatic, witches, magic, murder && vervain...

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}

{Elijah Mikaelson Tag-List }

@gorgeouslydangerous @starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv

@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming

@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse

@cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2

@itsjulzandmydiamonds @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury

@amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28

@sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @sekaishell @b1tchy

@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson

@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer @nina6708 @evasmlp

You wiped the sweat off your brow before picking up another bag of soil. Entering through the front gates of the compound, you dropped the bag next to the others and paused to catch your breath. You took a few more steps down the hall, entering a lavishly decorated courtyard. You had always been curious about what the compound looked like on the inside; you were not disappointed. Beautiful ivy laced up the old walls, spanning over arched balconies and expensive antique furniture was thoughtfully placed throughout. It was cozy, fantastical, and a little medieval; the only hint of modernity was string lights artfully hanging about.

It was easy to get swept up in the beauty of the place, so you had to remind yourself of all the evil the people that lived here had done. It was a sobering thought and you felt a surge of righteous anger. Your mind raced back to the countless people who had been hurt by these monsters. The innocent lives lost.

The ancestors had bestowed a glorious mission upon you and you were honored to be chosen. To take down one of the oldest and most powerful families of vampires was no small feat. It was not something you took lightly.

You returned to your task and carried on with your work. Gathering your tools from your car and retrieving the last bag of soil from the trunk. It was all very heavy, and the warm Louisiana weather was making you thirsty. You lugged the remaining supplies back inside the gate, dropping them down into a pile. Letting out a relieved sigh, you leaned against the wall and took a long sip from your water bottle, then another, then a third one to finally quench your thirst. You pooled a bit more of the water into your hands and splashed it on your warm face.

"Can I fetch you a wheelbarrow?" said a smooth voice from across the courtyard.

You spun around to find an amused looking gentleman, dressed in a three-piece suit. The infamous Elijah Mikaelson. He was not exactly what you had imagined, though it wasn't entirely surprising. A good predator hides behind a pleasing facade.

He was attractive, that was certain and he had the sort of charisma that could disarm you. He was smiling, his eyes dark and intense, like he could see right through to your skin and bones.

You put on your best smile, trying to be friendly and non-threatening. "Yes, that would be very helpful, thank you," you said breathlessly, wiping the water and sweat from your face.

He nodded and disappeared down the hall. You watched him go, admiring his handsome features as he left. You had a good feeling about this, he could be your way in.

You stepped further into the center of the courtyard, straining your neck trying to get a look at the opulent rooms beyond the second-floor balconies. What you were looking for was probably up there somewhere, just waiting for you to take it.

Elijah returned, pushing a large wheelbarrow before him.

"Thank you," you said, as he handed it off to you.

"It's nothing," he replied with a soft smile.

"Are you Klaus? I'm the one you hired to plant your garden," you replied politely, extending your hand. You needed to play the part of the naive gardener, clueless to who and what he was.

He chuckled, glancing at the bags of soil piled at the entrance. "No, I'm not Niklaus, but I did deduce what you were here for. My name is Elijah; Niklaus is my brother," he took your hand and shook it gently.

You knew exactly who he was, practically learning his name not long after you learned your own. He was the poised one, the liar, the deceiver. You had been taught to be wary of him, for his soft words and empty promises always led to death.

You didn't let any of this show, smiling back at him and saying, "Well, it's nice to meet you, Elijah."

It was a simple performance, all you needed to do was maintain it, add a bit of sincerity to your mannerisms. You pretended to be flustered by his charm, reaching up and twiddling the piece of verbena you had braided into your hair.

"So do you two own this place? It's beautiful," you remarked, looking up once again at the stunning architecture. "The ivy is incredible."

"Thank you; it's been in our family for years. Would you like a tour of the place?" He said, his eyes on your twiddling hand. You immediately put your arm down.

"I would love to, but I promised your brother I would finish setting everything up before the end of the day," you replied, pointing to the pile of supplies.

"It's quite alright, I will help you."

"Oh no, it's okay, I can manage-"

"Please," he said, his brown eyes looking deeply into yours.

This almost felt too easy, a part of you was suspicious, but you couldn't deny the thrill of playing the game. If you could win the favor of a Mikaelson, it would certainly help your cause.

"Alright," you replied with a nod. "Could you show me to your greenhouse?"

"Of course, follow me," he replied, walking ahead.

You picked up your bag of fertilizer and began the task of wheeling the heavy materials across the courtyard. Elijah glanced back at you with a concerned look on his face.

"Let me," he offered.

"That's alright, I've got it," you said, pushing the wheelbarrow with a grunt.

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press the matter further. He led the way towards the back of the estate, opening the doors for you. He had a way about him, a posture and stride of a man who had the confidence to do anything.

Because he wasn't a man, but a beast, and the world was his prey. You had to remind yourself not to be intimidated, even if it was difficult. You had trained for this, prepared yourself to face the most vile of creatures.

The greenhouse was large, with old, wooden tables full of tools and gardening supplies. The sunlight shone through the glass, illuminating the rows and rows of empty flower beds. You smiled, admiring the beauty of the space. It was the perfect place to create, to nurture life. The irony of it being located at the center of the den of death made you laugh.

Elijah gave you a curious look. "Is something funny?"

"It's nothing," you replied. "I'm just excited to get started. The weather is perfect."

He raised an eyebrow, looking a bit skeptical, his eyes traveling down your body, taking in your appearance. You looked a bit eccentric, with a pair of overalls covered in colorful patches and flowers braided into your hair. It was all a part of the persona, an act, and it worked. He relaxed his stance and gave you a smile, then he took the wheelbarrow from your hands and unloaded the soil with ease.

"You didn't have to do that. If you keep helping me like this, I might have to pay you and not the other way around," you joked, setting down your bag of tools on the workbench across from the door.

He smiled, taking a step back and raising his hands playfully in mock surrender. He leaned against the door frame, surveying you as you unpacked your things. "How long have you been a gardener?" He asked.

"I've been doing this professionally since I was eighteen, but I've loved it my whole life," you replied honestly, setting the seeds you had brought with you on the table. "I own a shop not far from here."

He nodded, glancing at the bags of fertilizer and plants, then back at you. "Do you enjoy it?"

"Of course. What's not to enjoy? Being able to create something beautiful, nurturing it, watching it grow. I love it."

You were being sincere and honest this time, no need to change everything about yourself. He studied you carefully, then made his way towards you, pulling out his handkerchief and gesturing for you to take it. "You have some soil on your forehead."

You blushed, taking the fabric and cleaning yourself; that was entirely on accident, but it was working well for your act. "Hazards of the job," you said, giving him a sweet smile and handing it back to him.

He smirked, sliding the used handkerchief into his pocket with a practiced grace. "It's no problem at all; I'll leave you to your work," he moved to leave when he suddenly paused and turned back to face you. "I don't mean to be impolite, but what do you have in your hair?"

"What?" You replied, feeling the side of your head where your hair was braided. You knew exactly what he was talking about, but it was important to feign innocence. "Oh, it's verbena, one of the plants your brother asked me to grow," you pulled the flower out of your hair and twirled it between your fingers. "It's an herb, and it smells nice, too," you lifted the blossom towards him.

He didn't make any move to take it from you, and you knew exactly why. Verbena was known for repelling vampires, you had braided the sprigs into your hair and woven it into the band of your hat. They were small enough to be ignored, but they were powerful.

"Out of curiosity, what else did he ask you to grow?" He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hmm, let's see," you turned away from him searching for the list you had left in your bag. "Monkshood, Sage, Yarrow, Verbena, and Winter bloom," you read off to him. "Klaus told me he liked the colors together."

You both knew that was utter bull shit. All of the plants were herbs with various magical properties, especially in the hands of a witch.

"Hmmm, of course he did, my brother can be very particular," he replied, looking a bit uneasy.

"It sounds like a diabolical witch's brew straight out of a fairy tale," you laughed, and so did he, but the tension was still there.

"It does, doesn't it." He paused for a moment, as though he was debating whether or not he should say something. "The verbena suits you. You should keep wearing it in your hair."

You smiled, blushing and twirling the flower between your fingers, "Thank you, I think I will."

"I will leave you to your work. My brother will be returning shortly, so if you have any questions, please feel free to ask him."

"Thank you," you replied cheerfully, "I appreciate that."

With that, he walked out of the greenhouse, shutting the door behind him. Once you were alone, the smile dropped from your face. Your hands were shaking and the adrenaline was coursing through your body. You were scared and excited all at the same time, the rush was overwhelming. It had been a risk, to flirt so brazenly with danger, but it had paid off.

Soon you would have your prize and the ancestors would honor you for generations to come.

You had your headphones on, humming along to your music as you worked on planting a row of winter bloom. It had taken a couple of hours to organize all the flowerbeds and fill them with soil. Now, the hardest part was getting everything planted.

You felt a large vibration through the floor, then another. You stood, pulling off your headphones; a blood-curdling scream echoed through the hallway, along with a loud crash coming from the courtyard. You quickly shut off the music and crept towards the door, peeking your head out. You heard angry voices and saw the shadow of a fight moving along the walls.

You stepped out into the open, walking slowly towards the noise, your spade clutched tightly in your fist. You peeked around the corner to find a gruesome sight.

Crumbled on the floor was what looked to be a pile of bodies, blood pooling out around them. Another scream came from above. You looked up to see Klaus on the third floor, holding a woman by her neck as he dangled her over the railing. Her feet kicking erratically as she helplessly struggled.

"You know the rules, no magic in the quarter," he yelled, his voice crackling with rage, pulling the woman close to his face. "You witches think you can make moves against my family and live," he said in hushed fury. "Now I have to use you and your conspirators as an example."

The woman gasped and clawed at his arm. Her face was turning blue, and her eyes were bulging. Klaus glanced down, meeting your eyes. Then he dropped her, her scream cut off as she hit the floor, a loud crack reverberating through the compound.

Suddenly, Klaus was in front of you. You tried to use the spade to defend yourself, striking out in his direction. He laughed and grabbed it from you with extreme ease. He then planted both of his hands against the wall on either side of your head. His eyes were black with murder, blood dripping from his grinning mouth. You tried to look away from his horrifying face, too frightened to even scream.

It was him, the fabled beast, the abomination. You could hear the voices of your ancestors, thousands of voices yelling out in anger, screaming at him.

Kill him, kill him, kill him, they chanted, louder and louder until it was all you could hear.

He grabbed your face, forcing you to look into his eyes and all the chanting turned to screams of fear and agony. Like they were being slaughtered by him all over again.

"Hello love, you must be the new gardener," he said, his words soft and gentle, "I'll be sure to give you a generous tip, for services rendered."

You wanted to tell him that he was the devil, the monster, the bringer of death. That you would be the one to end him. But you were paralyzed with terror, the screams and images were too much. You shut your eyes tight, trying to block it all out, but it was impossible. You started to sob, tears rolling down your cheeks, mixing with the dirt on your face.

"Look at me," he said softly, his fingers digging painfully into your cheeks.

You opened your eyes, your vision blurry and your head spinning. He had a strange look on his face, half amused, half concerned. He brushed away your tears with his thumbs, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"You won't remember anything about today; all you know is that you did another excellent day of work and finished all the planting," he said slowly, staring deeply into your eyes.

He let go of your face and offered you the spade. You looked down, taking it from his steady hand with your shaking one. He believed he could compel you, and you had to convince him that was true. You swallowed, taking a deep breath, remembering your training, focusing on slowing down your heart, relaxing your muscles. You couldn't panic, or you would die.

You looked back up at him, and he seemed pleased with himself, smiling brightly, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Go back to your work," he said, patting you on the shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

You took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as you tried to compose yourself. You were so scared you could barely stand. You had faced the beast, and you had survived. The screams in your head were deafening, the images of the dead witches flashed through your mind, the pain of their deaths searing through your body. But slowly, all their garbled words turned into one unifying chant.

Death to all vampires, death to all vampires, you whispered, echoing their words, clutching your spade tightly in your fist.

You half walked, half ran from your car to your shop, scrambling inside. You threw your tool bag behind the counter and headed to the back room. You faced the stone wall, and with trembling fingers, you slid aside the brick that hid the hidden latch. Your hand was shaking so hard you could barely get the door open.

Once it swung open, the scent of incense wafted through the air, filling your nose. The others had already gathered, all seven of them, the other witches who were brave enough to make a stand against the vampire scourge.

You rushed into the small room and shut the door behind you, turning to face them. They were waiting for you, looking at you expectantly.

"Report," Agnes demanded, her eyes narrowed and her hands gripping her cane tightly.

"They don't suspect a thing," you said, your voice still a little shaky. "The abominations bought my act,"

"And the ash?" Agnes asked.

"Location still unknown," you replied.

She nodded, seeming satisfied with the news, "very well,"

"How was it? Facing them, what were they like?" Your friend Beatrice asked, her brown eyes wide with concern.

"It was horrible," you replied, "they are just as ancestors say,"

"We need to plan the next steps," Maeve interjected, she was always impatient, wanting everything to happen as soon as possible.

"Maeve," Beatrice chastised. "If they suspect something is amiss, this could all fall to ruin,"

"We have a way in, that's the first step completed, we should not waste any time," Maeve argued. "Y/n can only plant a garden so slowly, when she is done we will lose all access to the compound."

Agnes was about to reply, but the door chime of the shop rang, cutting her off. "I will handle this," you said, taking a deep breath.

You looked to your sisters and nodded, leaving them and going back out into the shop. You would be right back to finish the meeting, you just had to quickly deal with a customer.

You put a smile on your face and rounded the corner, only to come face to face with one of the monsters you were just talking about.

Elijah.

He was standing by a shelf, looking at a potted plant. You swallowed, composing yourself before walking towards him.

"Mr. Mikaelson," you said as cheerfully as you could, "what can I do for you today?"

He looked up at you and smiled, putting the pot back down.

"I apologize for the intrusion," he said politely. "I wanted to see your shop, it's lovely," he gestured to the display shelves and many plants hanging from the ceiling.

"Thank you, I've spent a lot of time making it this way," you replied, feeling a bit proud.

"Your work in the greenhouse is quite impressive," he said, looking back at you, a curious expression on his face.

"It was nothing," you laughed nervously, rubbing the back of your neck, trying not to meet his gaze.

"I wanted to ask you something," he continued, walking around the store, looking at the various plants.

"Ask away,"

"You're a witch," he said casually, picking up a pot of herbs, taking in their fragrance.

You felt your heart stop, but you tried to remain calm. You had prepared for this, bumps in the road are to be expected.

"That's more of a statement than a question." You said as calmly as you could.

"Yes, well, you've done a very good job of hiding it, so much so that my brother didn't even suspect," he glanced at you, his brown eyes dark, almost black. "It seems strange that you would take a job as a gardener in a vampire's home."

"Why does that matter?" You asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

He stepped closer, and you backed up, bumping into the shelving behind you. Leaning down, his face hovering inches from yours, you could feel the heat of his breath on your face, and you were frozen in place.

"I like you," he whispered, "and I want to give you a chance to explain yourself."

You stared him directly in the eye, trying not to flinch or show any emotion. "It's important to protect yourself in these times,"

He chuckled, looking amused. "You speak of the ban on magic? My brother's rule of the quarter?"

"Yes," you replied simply.

He nodded, a small smile on his lips. "And how would you like to change that?"

You swallowed, the voices of your ancestors ringing in your ears. Lie, lie, lie, they commanded.

"I'm simply trying to survive," you answered, it wasn't a lie, just an incomplete truth. "I have no love for my kind,"

"Hmm," he mused, his dark eyes studying your face. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "So, tell me, are you planning on harming my family?"

You could feel his energy, his power. He was ancient, powerful, and deadly. "Of course not," you replied, looking up at him, praying your face didn't betray you.

He didn't respond, his gaze searching yours. He was close, so close, you could smell the cologne on his skin, the subtle hints of soap and shampoo. You knew the stories, the horrors, here you were, staring into the eyes of death himself.

You leaned in and kissed him, placing a hand on his chest. It was a wild gamble, but one that you hoped would explain your nervous energy.

He stiffened, surprised at the sudden contact. Then, as if he remembered himself, his hands grabbed you, pulling you in tightly against him. You had been told over and over that vampires were monsters, cold and heartless, but the heat radiating from him was overwhelming. He was so gentle and his lips were so soft. He pulled away, his eyes boring into yours. You were sure that he could see into your soul, see all the secrets and plans you were hiding. But, if he did, he didn't say anything.

"Well," he said, releasing you and straightening his suit jacket, "I'll see you tomorrow then."

You were about to say something when he was gone. You let out a sigh of relief, slumping against the shelves.

"Shit," you whispered.

You could see your path now, the way forward to victory, to eliminate the world of vampires. You took a deep breath and steadied yourself. You couldn't fail, not now, not when you had come so far.

All that was required was that you seduce a monster.

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}

[blueiight]

ldpdl, ethnicity, and the false monolith of blackness

there's this false tendency to think amc louis being made black is pandering, or a means of removing louis from his oh-so-detailed /sarcasm/ background in the books. i also find that people tend to not even understand what show louis's ethnic background is, despite rolin jones the showrunner and even the fictional louis both coalescing around this multigenerational explanation of the gens de couleur in new orleans, and how jim crow disempowered them.

I came around to his ethnicity a sort of interesting way which is through Lestat. [ … ] I was like lets give him a legitimate a third attempt at figuring how to be with somebody for the rest of his life and how to not repeat your mistakes. [ … ] I started from there so it had to be someone with some money cause he had to be with his own folks and I thought he wanted someone who could fight back and who could be a challenge and would force him to restrain himself. And nobody at AMC was interested in 7 seasons of the regretful plantation owner, so we made Louis come from a lineage that did have a plantation and did own slaves.

rolin jones in the s1 post-finale episode of the podcast names how he came to this understanding of louis's character. lestat, after failing to make a bride of his mother, and a concubine of nicki, was seeking for someone of a similar background, or the most approximate equivalent. he would not have been interested in louis if louis was an anglophone baptist black man descended from upper-south arrivals into new orleans, nor would he have been interested in louis if louis was a poor black creole honestly s1 does not give a good reading of claudia's ethnic bg in new orleans, but since she cannot understand french, we can presume shes either a poor creole removed from her cultural background with her vampiric adoption narrative in mind, or was also of an anglophone baptist black background like claudia was. louis coming from this fallen sort of gentry, the free gens de couleur, similar to that of the tvl lestat who came from this barren aristocracy dating back to the crusades, was key to lestat's long-term goals with louis.

Capital accrued from plantations of sugar and the blood of men who looked like my great grandfather but did not have his standing. But then decades of Jim Crow and the electrified light of a new century had vanquished any idea of a free man of color. - AMC IWTV 1x01

louis was of the first generations of the gens de couleur to be born, raised into, and face the institutional and personal ramifications of being viewed as black in america. this fuels much of the character's rage as he moves through storyville, trying to continue the similar modality of exploitation to the contrary of pretty baby with brooke shields, majority of the brothel circuit was statistically black girls + women being sexually pawned off to white men but ultimately failing to do so bc of the anglophone white american class that now rules over him. [tom anderson, alderman fenwick, finn o’shea starting out as louis’s subordinate then ending w/ him entering whiteness by having a sporting house throwing torches at louis’s brothel in s1e3]

By 1850, the free population of color, beset by the hostility of white supremacy, was economically diminished and residentially segregated. The Americanization of Louisiana, and in particular New Orleans, was completed before the state became the sixth to secede from the Union in 1861 in the struggle over the perpetuation of slavery. [link] The Democratic redeemers who came to power in 1877 lost no time in redefining the Negro's "place" in Louisiana life. They immediately restored the color line in the New Orleans public schools and offered silent support to de facto segregation practices in places of public accommodation. With the assistance of two landmark decisions by the United States Supreme Court, the redeemers soon dismantled the egalitarian legal apparatus put together piece by piece under the Radicals. Finally in 1890 they began to write their "final solution" into Louisiana law with a series of "separate but equal" statutes. Soon New Orleans Negroes were again segregated in virtually every public pursuit. [link]

[greenandsorrow]

The world we knew.

⊰⁠⊹ฺ Christmas Special ☆ﾟ⁠.

🤎🎄 human!Alastor x fem!reader 🎄🤎

☞ Your world crushes around you when you discover the truth about your beloved, childhood friend. Yet, not all hope is lost, 'tis the season for it after all.

☞ Not very lore accurate in the sense that I didn't want to make you suffer, much. It's happy holidays, not sad! (I'll definitely write human!Al stuff again)

Merry Christmas to anyone who celebrates!!!

Alastor hummed to himself as he strolled the festive streets of Louisiana, his signature smile masking the darkness lurking beneath. The Jazz Age gleamed around him, mixing with the holiday cheer. The streets were alive with the sounds of celebrations. Decorations hung from every lamp post and the scent of cider wafted through the crisp winter air.

You were out and about as well -oblivious to his presence so far. Enjoying the festive atmosphere that surrounded you, you couldn't help but feel excited in an almost childish way.

Suddenly, a familiar voice called your name, snapping you out of giddy trance.

You turned and saw him -Alastor, his tall and slender frame as striking as ever, his smile warm and his chocolatey brown eyes locked onto yours. His slicked-back hair and his stylish attire gave him an air of effortless charm.

For a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped.

"Alastor!" you exclaimed, heart fluttering as you rushed toward him. "I can't believe it is really you!"

His smile widened and he tipped his top hat.

"Ma chère" he greeted you in that melodic Creole drawl. "What a pleasant surprise. It's been far too long, hasn't it?"

"Yes, yes it has! You look... incredible" you complimented, unable to hide your admiration. "What have you been up to all these years?"

"Oh, the usual" his tone laced with mischief. "Well my radio show keeps me busy. A bit of exploring here, some delightful chaos there. You know how it is!"

He winked and you laughed, shaking your head. "You haven't changed a bit."

The two of you walked the vibrant streets of New Orleans, reminiscing about your shared past.

Alastor led you through the French Quarter, while weaving stories of jazz clubs and his successful career as a radio host.

Eventually, leaving the crowded streets, you made your way to the park, where the lights seemed to twinkle more softly, casting a magical glow over the cold evening.

The sun began to set, painting the sky orange and pink. The glow illuminated Alastor's features, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and that glimmer in his eyes. You found yourself staring.

He noticed, of course.

"Caught in the sunset, are we?" he teased, a knowing grin making its appearance.

You flushed, embarrassed. "It's just… beautiful out here."

As more time passed, a chill crept into the air. Noticing -such an observant man!- your shivering, Alastor slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. "We can't have you catching a cold, ma chère" he murmured, his tone soft and protective.

The gesture made your heart swell with affection. Despite his playful attitude, there was a warmth to him that made you feel safe, even now.

Later that same evening, Alastor invited you to a holiday gathering at his apartment. His insistence left no room for refusal. "You must come" he said, his smile radiant. "It wouldn't be the same without you."

His apartment was modest but elegant, decorated with garlands of holly and the cinnamon scented candles.

You were greeted with a warm embrace, his arms strong yet gentle. "Happy Christmas..." he said, his voice dripping with sincerity. "You look lovely in this dress..."

The gathering was lively, filled with laughter and jazz music. As one would expect, Alastor was the star of the evening, his voice weaving an irresistible spell over everyone in the room -like he had some sort of superhuman power that showed itself every time he opened his mouth to speak...

You found yourself enchanted, holding a delicate snow globe he gifted you. It was simply beautiful -snowflakes swirling around a tiny replica of the French Quarter. However, as you turned it in your hands, a strange unease settled in your chest.

Tucking the snow globe into your coat pocket, you slipped to another, quieter room. There, on a wooden desk, you noticed a letter. Its envelope was bearing Alastor's characteristic, distinct, and deliberate handwriting.

"My Dearest Mama,

I hope this letter finds you well. I think of you every day, and I pray that you aren't working yourself too hard. I miss you more than words can express, though I know for a fact we'll never meet again. Not after what I have done.

The memories haunt me, Mama. What he did to me… the pain, the fear... It never leaves. I tried to endure it for so long, to keep it hidden from you, but it grew inside me like a poison. And one night, I just couldn't take it anymore. I ended it. Permanently.

I know you loved him once, but you did not know him like I did. He was a monster, Mama. And though the world is better without him, I fear I nave become something worse. The darkness I carry now… it is unbearable.

I do not seek forgiveness. I do not deserve it. I just wanted you to know the truth, even if it comes out too late.

With love and regret,

Your son."

Your hands were trembling as you re-read the words over and over. The elegant handwriting of your childhood friend carried a weight that made your chest tighten.

"Oh Alastor..." you whispered, your mind buzzing with questions.

Before you could overthink it, you placed the letter into the pocket the snow globe also resided in and turned to find him.

A storm had started outside, already fierce, rain hitting against the windows as thunder growled in the distance.

When Alastor saw you coming out of his office, his usual confidence faltered at the sight of you -pale and clearly upset.

"Ma chère" he began softly, stepping in the quiet room and motioning you to follow him. "What's wrong?"

You didn't chew on your words.

"I found your letter. I need to hear it from you. Everything."

The flicker of resignation in his eyes made your stomach feel sick. He gestured for you to sit, but he remained standing, posture stiff.

"I suppose there really is no point in hiding it now" he said, his voice steady but without the usual warmth.

"Yes, I killed him. My father. And I would do it again."

His admission felt like a physical blow, but it wasn't even the act itself that left you reeling -it was the anguish in his voice, the raw pain he radiated even as he tried to appear composed.

"I wanted to protect you from this part of myself" he continued, his gaze fixed on the floor. "You see, you're the only good thing in my life and I just couldn't bear the thought of you seeing me as a monster."

You swallowed hard, unsure of what to feel. "You were only protecting yourself."

A pause.

Your throat felt dry.

Betrayal, disbelief, anger, sadness, helplessness and empathy all screamed in your mind. Empathy was the loudest.

At last, you stood and reached for his hand.

"But you're not a monster, Alastor. You're a man who's been through... Hell. But if we're going to move forward, there can't be any more secrets. No more masks. And it's going to be us, together."

Alastor froze for a moment before his fingers slowly curled around yours.

"You mean it?" he asked, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

"I do."

"If you can accept me as I am, then I will give you everything."

And he did.

Support a struggling uni student! Thank you so much! CLICK HERE (PayPal link)

🎄🤎 masterlist || Hazbin Hotel masterlist 🤎🎄

This work is part of the nymph's daily gifts! ✨

Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

Taglist: @stygianoir @aperfectidiot @lady-valtieri @what-0-life @clowncollegealum @whatinthepluto @dragonqueenfk @ajajajabdjsjx @ellie-x0xo @1rxsemary1 @ermmmwhattheflipguys @kimkimmm2411 @sukaretto-n @crowleysthings @ratskinsuit @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 @ilikemyteawithmilk @dontevenknowwhyimhere @dennsfz @sirens-and-moonflowers @diffidentphantom @midorichoco @speedycoffeedelight @cinnamon-galaxies @kammsinn @chibistar45 @alastorthirsty @victias @mezzo-piano230 @shayshaymonyou @atlaloversblog @iheartalastor @mydickisjuicy @pinestwinssimp

[bimobuddy]

Storms

Hazbin TK fic

Writing this because there's currently a storm going on that's not supposed to end until 7 pm, and I'm not doing well :)

Lee!Alastor, Ler!Lucifer

Alastor might be ooc

CW: Fear of storms?? Anxiety

Summary: Hell gets a really bad storm, and Alastor isn't as composed as he normally is. When Lucifer finds out the reason why, he decides to put their rivalry aside and help him out.

BOOM

Alastor gripped his cane tightly in his hands, his permanent grin slightly more strained than usual. Wordlessly, he stood up from his seat and made an excuse to Charlie about needing to finish up some scripting for his next broadcast.

He turned and left the lobby, his shoes clicking as he walked down the hall.

CRAAACK!!

His breath caught in his throat as he picked up the pace a little, his ears starting to fold back.

"Heeey, Bambi!" Lucifer called, appearing in front of him. Oblivious to the Radio Demon's distress, he grinned, ready to harass him. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Alastor gripped his cane so hard he thought he was about to snap it. "Not that it's any of your business, your highness, but I'm heading back to my room." He replied, trying to mask his fear behind his usual smile and sass.

As thunder sounded again, softer this time, more of a rolling sound, Lucifer picked up on Alastor's anxious demeanor. His tail flicked, and his ears were pinned back a little.

The king chuckled, "Oh come on, don't tell me you of all demons are scared of a little-"

BOOOM!!

Lucifer blinked and looked around. Had Alastor disappeared? The light sound of microphone feedback caught his attention, and he turned to see that Alastor hadn't disappeared into shadow, but instead dropped to the floor and hidden under a table in the hall.

Alastor's ears were fully pinned back as he shook and pressed himself back against the wall.

Sensing this was something deeper, Lucifer kneeled down to be eye level with him. "Hey," he started, speaking softly, the same way he had to Charlie when she was a child and scared of the dark, "You're okay, Al. This hotel was built with angelic power, the storm isn't going to break in."

Alastor, eyes wide still, looked up at the king. When Lucifer took a chance and reached a hand out, he was surprised when Alastor took it.

"When I was a child," the demon started, his voice losing its radio filter, "a really bad tornado hit Louisiana. It devastated our town and nearly destroyed my home. I was in the cellar with my mother for hours until we were found."

Lucifer's eyes widened a little bit, as he felt his heart break for the demon. He gave Alastor's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "You know, Charlie used to be afraid of storms too-"

Alastor forced a short laugh. "Wonderful, I'm behaving like a child." He pulled his hand away, and climbed out from under the table, feeling embarrassed for having acted like that in front of his rival. As another boom of thunder sounded, Alastor froze and gripped the table so hard, the wood started to crack and splinter.

Lucifer summoned his wings and wrapped one side around Alastor. "Let me walk you to your room-" Alastor shook his head. "My room is modeled to look like the swamps of Louisiana, I can't-... I can't stay in there during a storm."

"Alright then... My room, come on." He turned and started to guide Alastor in the opposite direction. He folded his wings in and de-summoned them, as to let Alastor retain his dignity when they passed by the lobby again.

As he was being guided, Alastor didn't once argue or complain, much to the surprise of Lucifer. He actually stayed rather close to the king, ears down, forcing himself to take deep breaths.

When they reached Lucifer's room, there was a flash of lightning, causing Alastor to rush in quickly. Seeing Alastor break character so much was very odd and concerning to the king. For as long as he had known the demon, Alastor had the attitude of someone who was untouchable. And now here he was, shaking, and bleating like a scared fawn.

He sighed, feeling bad for him. He remembered when Charlie would come running into his room scared, during a storm. Back then, he would have scooped her up into his lap, and they would have counted the seconds between the flashes of lightning and the cracking of thunder. And when that didn't work, he'd- Oh there's an idea.

"Alastor?" He started, taking his hat off and setting aside. "You wanna know what I used to do with Charlie when she was scared of storms?" He asked with a smile.

The Radio Demon turned to face him. He was still holding onto that smile, but his eyes showed just how distressed he was. He tilted his head.

Lucifer waved him over, sitting down. "I'll show you, sit down." Alastor approached and sat next to him, willing to try anything at this point to calm his nerves. He set his cane aside and let out a surprised fawn squeak when the king just opened his coat. He was obviously wearing a shirt underneath, but he hadn't expected for Lucifer to touch him.

"It was a little game we'd play. You ready?" Before Alastor could question it, he saw another flash of lighting that made him jump. That was Lucifer's cue to start.

He reached forward and started to scritch his claws against Alastor's sides, up and down. The demon let out a startled yelp, and at first Lucifer thought maybe this was a bad idea. But when the host started to chuckle and lean into it, he smiled and continued.

As thunder rolled and boomed overhead, Lucifer slid his hands upward and spidered over his ribs. Alastor doubled over, laughing harder, yet he barely even noticed the loud noise, only able to focus on the tickling.

Playful claws zipped down and vibrated into his hips, and the radio host couldn't help but curl up and fall onto his side, tail wagging. He squeezed his eyes shut and laughed louder, his own hands shooting down to grab Lucifer's, yet he didn't push him away, seeming to be more than okay with this distraction.

The king gave his hips a break and reached up to gently scritch behind his ears. He couldn't stop the fond smile that painted itself across his face once Alastor's loud laughter melted away into staticky giggles.

Lucifer summoned his wings back and again, and wrapped them around Alastor, pressing them against his back. Alastor normally hated touch, but he welcomed this. It was warm, and the gentle, constant pressure against his back was helping with his anxiety, a lot actually.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Lucifer plucking one of his own feathers. His cheeks warmed and his ears folded back, but he didn't attempt to escape. He just squeezed his eyes shut again, and allowed the angel to flutter it under his chin.

Alastor burst into surprised giggles, shocked at just how ticklish it was. It definitely didn't feel like a normal feather, it was worse.

Lucifer chuckled, "Yeah, angels feathers, they're much more intense than birds." He saw the window flash, and brought the feather down to Alastor's tummy, pushing his shirt up. Right when the thunder started, he started to flick and flutter the feather against his skin, grinning to himself when Alastor jumped and curled up, laughing, gently batting at the king.

Yet he didn't even notice the storm outside.

[gallaghersgal]

tell me about baseball because I know nothing but would like to learn!

FEVER PITCH pro baseball!lip headcanons

TAGS & WARNINGS: mature, 18+. sexual content but non explicit, drinking mention, emotional angst, pregnancy. but also fluff!! silly shenanigans, second chance romance, lip is stupid in love.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is my brain child omfg. tysm for sending this ask, honestly. i yapped!!! there was also more to this but i've been adding to it for days and its getting long for hcs so. lmk if anyone wants part 2 teehee

WC: 1.4k

when he was younger lip always played shortstop, his arm was powerful but not quite precise enough to pitch, but he never minded. pitchers have to remember too much, shortstop just falls into the rhythm; watching the pitch, listening to the crack of the bat, and tracking the ball as it rocketed through the field. the two of you met in college, lip played two seasons at university of chicago before transferring to a better athletic program. there was a mutual breakup before parting ways, but whenever he's in town you can't fight the urge to see each other.

he's picked up on the MLB draft straight out of college, after captaining the national championship team, and sent to an affilliate somewhere warm in the south, georgia or maybe louisiana. he calls you often to boast the climate, while you complain about the stress of your masters degree. over time the calls come less frequently, but each conversation feels like no time has passed at all.

it takes three years for lip to work his way up to the big leagues, where he joins the chicago cubs for his rookie season. now, lip plays centerfield. he's a quick runner, and his powerful arm sends balls to their respective bases at record speed. he's efficient, most teams don't stand a chance.

he doesn't know how to tell you he's coming home again, back to chicago. and back to you. you find out from your best friend, who overheard fiona talking about it at patsy's. you two along with fi & veronica find the money for tickets at centerfield, right where lip will be.

fiona whistles through her fingers the second she reaches her seat and waves down her brother, whose cheeks immediately turn bright pink. if a teammate pointed it out he'd surely brush it off as the chilled march wind, but you know him better than that. he greets the four of you nervously, opening up as he gets sight of the smiles you wear. no one cares he didn't tell, your joy at his homecoming tops any negative in your minds.

after the third inning a guest services rep brings the four of you a handful of meal and beverage vouchers, a gift from lip. later you'll learn he'd tried to have your seats upgraded but was denied, too low on the totem pole for that sort of request. so you pile your arms with hot dogs, pretzels, cheese fries, diet coke and fancy ipa brews.

the game flies by, you and fiona sit side by side and shout teases down to lip, watching his face light up. this is the first time you really see his talent, how he's developed as an athlete. he finally has somewhere to put all of that pent up energy he keeps inside, using it to jump up in the ivy wall for a catch, to react as quick as the ball and sprint in the same direction. when he catches the game-winning out, a fly ball straight to centerfield, he tosses it up into the stands. it sails directly to you, tipsy giggles spilling from your lips as you scrawl your phone number onto the white canvas before throwing it back down.

lip wants to fog up the windows of your honda right there in the parking lot but you have the presence of mind to drag him towards his own parked car while he trails sloppy kisses down your neck. the sex is amazing, it always is, but there’s something different in the way he holds you this time. you pretend not to notice it, until you have a reason to bring it up.

three weeks later, two pregnancy tests sit on the gallaghers bathroom counter. you'd only brought one along, but fiona dug another out of her bedside table drawer when you became anxious at the two pink lines. when the second test reads positive, v offers to call lip for you and you let her.

it's hours before he can get to you, even without a game there's still training, a players meeting, and dinner afterward with franchise sponsors. he's busy, you get it. fi gives you the spare key to his apartment—a studio unit in a high rise downtown, somewhere you couldn't imagine a gallagher living—and lip pays for a cab to take you there.

once you lay eyes on the space it becomes a little more believable that lip gallagher lives there. a box spring and mattress are stacked together in one corner, topped with the classic navy blue sheets and two pillows. he has a small couch (loveseat, more like) that you decide to wait on, favoring it over the bed. his tv sits on the floor against the wall, with the remote balanced precariously on top. flipping through channels is a nice, mind numbing activity to soothe you, and you fall asleep after landing on old sitcom reruns.

the sun has long set when lip comes in the door, eyeing your sleeping frame. he decides to let you sleep while he washes the grime of the day from his body. he kneels by you when he's clean and fresh, clothed in nothing but blue gingham boxers. "'ey kid, wake up," he mumbles, smoothing your hair away from your brow. when he sees you blink up at him he continues softly, "y'can live here with me, until the baby is born, m'kay? an' we can decide what we want to do." "about?" "about us."

you smile up at him, he offers you the bed and insists on taking the couch, not allowing himself too much of a good thing. he's already over the moon you want to keep the baby, his baby. he doesn't want to scare you away. he only makes it a week cramped up on that tiny couch. later in your relationship you have something funny to look back on, old photos of lip with his knees tucked up and one arm hanging awkwardly off the cushions.

when he can't stand the couch anymore he orders you a pregnancy pillow, and you order a bedframe, all on his card of course. you don't even need the pillow yet, most nights of your first trimester you're up and down, in and out of the bathroom. each time you come back to bed lip is on his stomach, arms curled around that damn pillow as he rests on it. he says it helps his sore muscles. whatever the reason is you don't really care, the toned expanse of his back makes a good pillow anyway.

you get into a habit of ordering furniture, decorations, and other home goods while lip is away. he doesn't mind, always makes sure you use his card, he wouldn't know what to do with all that money anyway. little by little the studio apartment starts to feel like home, and lip starts to feel more like a serious boyfriend than a hookup turned baby daddy, for lack of better wording.

before you know it the season is over, lip receives a large bonus after the cubs make the playoffs, and the two of you are kissing over a bottle of sparkling cider as you christen your new two-bedroom townhouse, complete with a downstairs office space and large backyard. october turns the leaves beautiful hues, and the calmness of this new neighborhood soothes your mind, your due date in december rapidly approaching.

between the new place, increased proximity during the off-season, and your pregnancy hormones, you find yourself bickering more and more with lip. it comes to a head one night when he shouts at you, and you feel the baby kick in response before you break down completely. the fight was about something small, insignificant. it had started with you talking about baby names. lip isn't sure how he let it spiral this way.

dutifully, with regret painted on his features, he kneels down beside your crumpled form on the bed. he takes your hand, muttering an apology and promising to make things work. then he says softly, "i like lucy. as a name for the baby?" you just stare at him, and he continues, "could be short for lucille. an' you liked olivia for a middle name, yeah?"

"lucille olivia gallagher. it's so pretty, lip, i love it." you smile in awe, reaching out to cup his cheek. "i love you," you say, and now it's lip's turn to stare. but a moment passes and he smiles, gathering your frame into his arms to pull you into his lap. "love you too, pretty girl."

by new years day you have a healthy baby girl in your arms, and a pretty diamond ring on your left hand.

© gallaghersgal, 2024. dividers © cafekitsune (x)

[small-sinclair]

Her Ruby Plains

Whumptober Day 3 and 4: Set Up for Failure and Hallucinatons 

Corrupted!Gambit x sick!reader  

Kinda prof-read. Kinda not. Let me know with you want more Corrupted!Gambit :3

“I warned you” and “You’re still alive in my head”. 

The dark purple smoke that filled Gambit’s lungs and opened a flood gate to his powers. He could feel the energy in the room and felt every type of potential each objected held. He could easily take down the light, take down this whole town with a snap of a finger! Remy just wanted to watch the world burn with one card at a time. Everything was a pawn in his chess game. He could take the Queen with just a single move from a pawn. Even if he didn’t win, the cards are always in his favor. A life lesson he learned when his powers went down the drain and spiraled out of control.  

Everything he touched, whether it be cards or exploding a charge with a car battery, he didn’t care. He’ll have all of Louisiana at his feet and in the palm of his hand. It’ll teach everyone—teach them not to mess with what’s his. He didn’t care how he made it there as long as he made sure he made a statement. His dark brown jacket worn and battered, cards be damned, and a greedy glint in his eyes was all he had to offer as he looked over the town burning below. He made this beautiful mess, this bright and lovely messed. 

Then he thought of your smile and how you would beam when he came to your little cottage on the outskirts of the swamp, just near the riverbed. There, his guard would fall and allowed your love to wrap him like a blanket. If only he could put your light into a bottle, he would take you wherever his darkness went. Looking at you with the brightness of the moon over the waters and marsh filled him with unspeakable thoughts of care and love. He didn’t love you like a partner; he loved more like a divine being. If you allowed him, the Cajun would build you and alter in the hidden parts of the swamp.  

With a twirl of his boe staff, he turned his back to the flames and headed towards your house, his home and world. As he walked, he scooped up the CVS bag of medicine. Before he burned everything down, you called him, slurring your words as you told him to get you some medicine. So, that delayed the firework show for thirty minutes because he couldn’t decide which one you needed and had to get help from someone to help. Out of kindness, he spared the CVS and the employees—just to show good on his word, he personally made sure none of his powers went to the corner of happy and healthy.  

He lit a ciggaret as he walked the path towards your home. With every step, his pace quickened until he found himself running. Inside him, something was building up that called for him to scream out in anger. Where this feeling came from was beyond him— 

“I warned ya that you’ll be too stressed over me,” he heard your voice say, replying a memory from a few days ago just as the sickness was starting. “You’ll get a headache one of these day, Gam-bees.”  

 He took his staff and charged it until it was burning a bright purple and red. He launched himself and used the charge to get him over most of the marsh. His shadow cast by the moonlight over the murky waters below. He could see all of Louisiana’s ruby plains and her beauty from this high up, and he couldn’t help be feel amazed how he could see it like this, see her in everything there was to offer. She would belong to him; she will belong to him...Louisiana waters and all.  

He landed lightly on his feet on the path leading up to your cottage. He never understood why you wanted a stone cottage out in the middle of nowhere, but he understood the honesty that came with it and the alone time. He just wished you would come to the town he's in and to the city lights, but that's not your speed. It never was your speed.

Gambit came up the steps of the wooden porch and went inside his trench coat for the key you gave him, which had a picture of 9 of Clubs on it. He takes the mail out of the mail flap on the side of the door and came into the house. He wiped his feet before heading to the back of the house to your room. As he walks pass the kitchen, he takes his coat off and hangs it on the back of a chair, gets a glass of water, and an empty bowl with a rag. If your fever hasn’t broken yet, he’ll have to help you.  

“Cher? You alive?” He called out before he came into your room. “I gotcha some medicine an’ water. Figured you...” his voice trailed when he entered your room until he was speechless. His red on black eyes filled with a glint of sadness as he looked over your shivering form. You looked so weak in his eyes, so frail and gone too far where he couldn’t follow. He didn’t turn on the lights as he entered your room. “Mon dieu, cher,” he whispers, setting the stuff on the nightstand. He place the back of his hand against your forehead. “Darlin’, you’re burnin’ faster than a gator on a spick.”  

You leaned into his cool touch, whimpering slightly. “Heya,” you managed to say, but your voice was so tired and frail that it hurt you.  

He sat close to you and brushed your sweaty hair back. “Rest, sunshine. Ya need t’get better for me, yeah?” His accent was thick and low as he spoke to you. He felt like he was telling you a secret. “Gambit brought ya some medicine an’ water. Can you sit up, cher?” He guided you to a sitting position and held you in close then resting your back against the wooden frame. “There ya are; good, very good.”  

“It hurts,” you whispered as his hand caressed your cheek. “Bones hurt.”  

“I know, I know,” he whispers. “But I’m here, mon cher. Gambit ain’t leavin’ ya tonight.” His hand left your skin and dug through the CVS bag then pulled out dark green medicine. “The lady said dis should help. Taste like shit but it works.”  

He opened the bottle and poured it in the little measuring cup. Gambit brought it up towards your lips and helped you take it. He kissed your forehead gently as a ‘thank you’ and put it aside to take the glass of water. “Slow sips, sunshine,” he whispers, guiding your hand up to your lips. “You’re doing so well, mon ami. Just need to take it slow.” He moved the glass away then kissed your forehead once more. “I warned ya ‘bout going outside without a jacket. Gets cold out here.”  

His lower hand guided you back into the bed, letting you rest under your blankets and stuffed animals.  

“...alive in my head...”  

“What’s that, darlin’?” He leaned his head down closer to you. “Gambit didn’t quite hear you.”  

“You’re still alive in my head,” you repeated. “Not gone or fighting...just being alive in my mind is enough.”  

“Sugar, I’m alive,” he reassured, letting a nervous laugh escape. “Nothin’ killed me yet.”  

“You’re really here?” His heart broke as your hand held his cheek. “Promise? No more fighting or nothing?”  

He wanted to tell you the truth, but there was this desperate look in your eyes that called him to stop, that called for peace. Gambit lets out a deep breath and nods, pushing strains of hair away from your eyes. “Yeah,” he answers. “I’m still alive and going good. Gambit promises, Cherie .” There’s honor among thieves and the honor of keeping their sunshine bright with hope. Every thief knows this, well, every good thief.  “I swear it.”  

He stayed near, sitting close to watch over you. His eyes glowed in the darkness as if it was beckoning any type of misfortune to enter your home while you rest. Born into nothing but has something to call home...that's who Remy was. Compared to your ghosts and to his, his wealth to your simpleness, your bright smile with daisy rings around your body to his poison ivy and thrones. If he had to protect your from himself, he'll do it all for you.

Everything was for you.

Ruby fields of Louisiana will belong to him one day soon, but he’ll pause that adventure for you. He’ll live a lie that your sick mind needs him to live. If you need him to be an X-Men and need him to be better than the villains, he’ll do that. If it makes you better and get over your sickness, then he’ll do it until the light leaves your eyes. Once you're gone, lungs and all, he'll rage like nothing has before. He loved you too much to admit it, and it filled his lungs with swamp water and leeches.

As you slept into the night, he found a chair and came close to your bed, holding your hand the whole night. He would sleep now and then, nodding off into the abyss, but jerked awake when you started coughing all too loud and all too long.

"I'm here," he promises, smoothing your hair every time, comforting you the same why you would. "I'm right here."

"Still alive?"

"Breathin' as if it's nothin'," he answers. He'll kiss your forehead, saying, "Go back to sleep, darlin'. Gambit ain't leavin'."

"Promise?"

"With all my cards and scars, sugar." Let you have a space in his mind. He'll let you dance freely and openly. Just say when and he'll open like a coffin in the middle of the highway: fast, loud, and eager. "With all my cards."

[stone-cold-groove]

Something that means something, but only to me.

[circeyoru]

Angelic Doctor

[Human!Alastor x Disguised Angel!Reader]

Part 1 (here)

Part 2

You were one of the rarer angels that could travel between Heaven and Earth with the purpose of spreading good. Your job was to pose as a regular human and do good wherever you were for the people, that is until you were given the opportunity to ‘die’ and rid yourself of the false human identity you have

One of your identities was in New Orleans, Louisiana. You were one of the rare female doctors on staff at the hospital, you followed the ways of the humans with their medical practices even while you could have used your healing powers behind closed doors. But you just didn’t when human ways could heal, just needing more time and resources. You only used your powers when it was a dire situation and the patient didn’t deserve death, particularly souls that would do good or spread good 

Your angelic moment was brought out when you were suddenly met with a runaway offender who had been released from prison on good behaviour. The man was begging for you to hide him or bring him somewhere safe because he wasn’t familiar with the surroundings, your angelic eyes caught the colour of his soul - light red, so he was destined for Hell. Against your better judgment, you brought him to the hospital for treatment

Sadly, the next day when you returned for work, the man was found murdered in the bathroom with organs missing, only to be found in the donation box. You were beyond distraught and took some time off. It wasn’t that you were overly sensitive about the death of the man, it was more so that you didn’t protect him well enough. Who knows, if he was let out because of good behaviour, perhaps he could be changed. After all, his soul was yet to be dark blood red, so there was still time to save him from damnation in Hell. That was your job as an Angel!

You have yet to meet one that was impossible to be changed, irredeemable ones, and you met one sooner than expected. You heard him before you met him. While the radio was broadcasting in the cafe you frequent before your work hours, the moment his voice was echoed in the room, the patrons would speak softer to hear his voice. You have to admit that his voice was melodious and he sure has a way with words, with his charisma, you figured that he was a good and honest person, favoured and have a place in Heaven

Oh how wrong were you

You remember it so clearly, the moment you met him, face-to-face, a chance encounter where he protected a fair lady that was you against a drunken man, your eyes widened when you got a good look at his soul the moment things were resolved. A blood-red soul, nearly black. A serial killer that was suspected to be a cannibal as well roamed the street, striking fear and worry to the good people. That was him, Alastor the famous and beloved radio host

Alastor had heard of your lifesaving work all around town, pun intended. People sang praises of you no matter how small or big of an injury or illness that you had cured. In fact, he had put his trust and faith in you when he enlisted his sick mother into the hospital, although you were only a small-time doctor and one who was in training since you were a transfer from the town over

His mother’s doctor in charge was more than unwelcoming since he was a greedy and unethical man, how he wished he could just off the man and have the hospital staff change doctors. But you were under that doctor’s guidance, he did his research. If that doctor were gone, you would be transferred away. So he put up with it

While Alastor didn’t have the time to meet you face to face since there seemed to never be a moment where he caught you on break or free during his rare visits to the hospital, he could only watch you from afar

Don’t think he didn’t catch the way you’d keep his kind sick mother entertained while he wasn’t around. If it wasn’t him catching you leaving the room, it was his mother who spoke highly of you when he apologised for keeping her waiting. For some reason, his mother was always more energetic after your visits, like you were a breath of fresh air in a polluted fog

However, the tragic news of his mother’s passing came and it just so happened to be during the days when you were off duty, on vacation as it were. He took some time to adjust, only really bouncing back when he received a handwritten letter that was addressed to him (the family of the mother, professionally) expressing your condolences and that you assured him his mother was a pure and loved soul who would be welcomed in Heaven where paradise awaits

His killing took a different turn, he didn’t want to kill the innocent and pure, no one like his good angelic trainee doctor, no, death should be for the wicked. So he played god on another level, hunting down the no goods of the city and feasting on them like they were animals in the slaughterhouse. His slaughterhouse, or cabin in the swamps

Imagine his surprise when one of his killings brought him to you. You, the kind now full-time doctor, took his prey to the hospital to nurse him back to health. Oh, but that prey was no good, that prey was an enemy to the kind children you’d smile and teach and a vermin that took what it couldn’t have. So he waited until you were out of the building and began his work. This time, instead of feasting on the organs, they looked to be in good condition to donate to someone in need of it. And into the organ donation section they go 

It was one fated night that you and Alastor had your one-sided reunion. Like a heroic knight in shining armour, he rescued you from the brute of a drunk man. “Are you alright, dear?” He’d ask, he figured you were in a state of shock from the ordeal so he brought you to a diner and gave you space to breathe and recollect everything. He would have to deal with that drunk man who gave his angelic doctor a fright at a later time

For now, he can finally get to know you. Of course, he’d keep his double life a secret, but surely his charming radio host self can blind you enough that you fall for him first, right? Then he can slowly plan your days together like his mother would want for him. Until his time is up and he’d be in Hell

Note: Another one! Cause I'm in the mood for writing, plus I have the time~ ლ(´ڡ`ლ)

Should I do part 2 for this one? There's still some ideas left ~(˘▾˘~)

Circe Y.

MASTERLIST

[iwtvfanevents]

Rewind the Tape —Episode 2

Art of the episode

Just like we did for the pilot, we took note of the art shown and mentioned in the second episode while we rewatched it, and we are sharing our findings with you. Did we miss any? Can you help us put a name to the unidentified ones? Do you have any thoughts about how these references could be interpreted?

Unnamed painting by Marius de Romanus

Created for the show (uncredited artist).

Armand (still "Rashid") tells Daniel that Marius was a contemporary of Tintoretto (1518-1594).

Transformation

Ron Bechet, 2021 [Identified by Gizmodo's Linda Codega, here.]

Bechet is a New Orleans-born visual artist. He's a relative of the early jazz pioneer Sidney Bechet. Exhibition Prospect.5 says about the collection this piece belongs to: "Bechet carefully renders the ways vines wrap themselves around trees for support and access to sunlight. At times, this relationship serves both the vine and the tree. Works such as Transformation depict a harmonious symbiosis, as tree and vine both flourish. (...) Through his immersive compositions, Bechet invites us to see history and ourselves in relationship to the beauty, power, and violence of the natural world." And, from Xula Gallery: "Here, we are gifted with the physical proximity of life and death – How they share the same organic space, how they sleep together as equals. The flora of South Louisiana's natural landscape is cleaved open to expose its roots. (...) Here is botany that has every potential of becoming monstrous. All of these meanderings are used to symbolize the deep historical roots of a family home and exhibits the precariousness of nature, both human and environmental, with all of its nurturing and destructive potential. (...) It is a diaspora body, skin folded back to reveal its elegant and resilient backbone."

Untitled photographs

Vivian Maier, undated

Maier was a street photographer whose work was discovered and distributed after her death —she took more than 150,000 photographs during her life, and never printed or circulated any. You can learn more about how her work came to light here. We don't actually see the self-portrait in the third picture, which hangs to the left, until episode four.

Dancers

Edgar Degas, 1899 [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]

Degas produced countless paintings of ballerinas throughout his career. While he is often considered an impressionist, he himself saw himself more as a realist and preferred harsh gritty subjects of working class backgrounds. Ballerinas at the time often came from working class or poor families and worked intense grueling hours.

Berthe Morisot with a Fan

Edouard Manet, 1872 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Manet was one of the first 19th-century artists to paint modern life, as well as a pivotal figure in the transition from Realism to Impressionism. The portrait in this scene shows his close friend, painter Berthe Morisot, wearing mourning blacks after the death of her father, but wearing a wedding ring —she was engaged to Manet's brother.

Portrait of Erich Lederer

Egon Schiele, 1912 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

The Schiele depicts a young Erich Lederer, son of art collectors Serena and August Lederer, whose collection was looted by the Gestapo.

Paddy Flannigan

George Bellows, 1908 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

The Bellows depicts a young impoverished boy on the streets of New York.

A Doll's House

Henrik Ibsen, 1879

Lestat tells Louis "They'll seat us late, and we'll miss Nora's entrance with the Christmas tree," which quite a few fans soon identified as a reference to this play, in which a housewife becomes slowly disillusioned with marital life and eventually leaves her husband. This conclusion led to the play being banned in certain countries, such as Germany and Britain, and Ibsen was compelled to write an alternative ending, in which Nora's husband forced her to stay. In the two stage productions pictured above, you can see Kelsey Brennan and Nate Burger on the left, and Assad Zaman and Anjana Vasan on the right.

Unnamed paintings of Papa du Lac and Paul

Created for the show (uncredited artist).

Unidentified painting*

* The running theory is that the woman in this painting is Gabrielle, Lestat's mother; which would mean this is another uncredited prop painted for the show.

Woman in A Fur Coat

Edouard Manet, 1879

Additionally, on the bottom left corner of the frame you can catch a glimpse of another unidentified painting, but we couldn't get any clearer looks of it either.

Autumn at Arkville

Alexander H. Wyant, 1909 [Identified by @vfevermillion.]

The one in the mirror and the one on the other side of the door are too blurry, but we managed to place the one on top of the couch!

The Lone Tenement

George Bellows, 1909 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

The National Gallery of Art says about this painting: "Bellows has imbued the composition with a sense of eerie wistfulness, recording the precarious positions of those who were being displaced to make way for the future."

Don Pascuale

Gaetano Donizetti, 1842

The opera that Louis and Lestat go to at the end of the episode follows an elderly bachelor, who gets conned by his nephew Ernesto and his friend Malatesta into marrying the nephew's lover, Norina, under false pretenses. You can find a complete synopsis here.

The Storm On The Sea Of Galilee

Rembrandt van Rijn, 1633 [Identified by Gizmodo's Linda Codega.]

Rembrandt van Rijn, Dutch Baroque painter and printmaker from the 17th century, is best known for his biblical and allegorical pieces. Rembrandt's only seascape was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston on March 18th, 1990, alongside other 12 works of art. The case remains unsolved.

If you spot or put a name to any other references, let us know if you'd like us to add them with credit to the post!

This week, we will be rewatching and discussing Episode 3, Is My Very Nature That of a Devil. We can't wait to hear your thoughts!

And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►

[imperatordavianus-blog]

Warning ⚠️🔞 this is strictly only for adults. This is a erotic horror story with scenes that may be uncomfortable for most. Stop 🛑 if you feel uneasy for this story. This is my first time writing this.

Her Undying Beating Heart

The house was old, its creaking wooden frame barely holding back the Louisiana heat. The faint scent of jasmine mixed with mildew clung to the air, an almost living presence that seemed to breathe alongside its inhabitants. In the dimly lit bathroom on the second floor, the water ran hot, steam curling up like ghostly fingers.

Marianne a tall biracial woman, with long brown hair stood in the clawfoot tub, the water lapping at her thighs as she leaned against the porcelain edge. At six feet tall, she carried herself with a regal elegance. Her slim figure was striking, her skin glowing from the care she lavished on herself. Her chest, however, was her most defining feature—impossibly large and perfectly rounded, her triple-Z breasts rose and fell with her steady breathing. Giant breasts that seemed to defy gravity, heavy and full, yet firm, moving in hypnotic rhythms with every step..

The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic pounding of her heart. It was no ordinary heart—it was a monstrous thing, grotesquely enlarged, a testament to some dark power she had long since embraced.

**Th-thump. Th-thump. THOOOOOM.**

The sound reverberated through the walls, a constant reminder of the life force that defined her. Marianne loved her heart in a way that transcended normal understanding. She had nurtured it, protected it, and allowed it to grow into the grotesque, bulbous thing it was now. It possibly and probably weighed over **1,500+ grams**, its ventricles grotesquely distended, each aneurysm attached to it bulging and dilated like obscene tumors.

The superior vena cava aneurysm rose from the top like a twisted crown, the pulmonary venous aneurysms flanking it like grotesque horns. The thoracic aortic aneurysm, the size of a grapefruit, pulsed with a sickly rhythm, while the pulmonary artery aneurysm quivered with each thunderous beat.

**Th-thump. TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM.**

Marianne ran her hands over her chest, her fingers tracing the heavy curve of her breasts. She could feel her heart pounding beneath her skin, its monstrous size pushing against her ribcage. A shiver ran through her, and she closed her eyes, lost in the rhythm of her own body. She was falling in love with her own heart.

In the hallway, hidden in the shadows, her teenage son, Ethan, her fair skinned son with brown curly hair, watched. He had always admired his mother’s beauty, but something darker had taken root in him. He was jealous—not of the men who flirted with her, but of the object of her obsession. He knew the truth: Marianne didn’t love anyone or anything more than her grotesque, monstrous heart.

Ethan’s fists clenched at his sides as he listened to the rhythmic pounding. **Th-thump. TH-THUMP.** It was as if the heart mocked him, its thunderous beat drowning out his own thoughts.

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

Ethan burst into the bathroom, the steam enveloping him like a shroud. Marianne turned, startled, her wet brown skin glistening in the dim light. Her mountainous rounded breasts were before him, watching the pulsating veins bulging on them. She was breathing heavily as her massive tits bounced with excitement as she saw her son.

“Ethan!” she snapped, her voice sharp. “What are you doing?”

But Ethan wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed on her chest, where the both of them could hear the grotesque, pounding organ that they could feel even from across the room. He stepped forward, his hands trembling.

“Mom… it’s not fair,” he whispered. “You love it more than me.”

Before she could respond, Ethan lunged. His hands pressed against her chest, his fingers digging into her skin. He could feel the monstrous heart beneath, its thunderous pounding vibrating through his palms and sandwiched in between her massive rotund breasts.

"Chimama,Chimama, Chimama, Chimama Chimama...Chi...ma...ma" she chanted. Those ritualistic words are spoken in the event when a mother's Heart is about to be removed. Exclusively meant for big breasted mothers, Marianne looked down at her son almost visible as her massive breasts are walled in.

**TH-THUMP. TH-THUMP. BOOM-THOOOOOM.**

Marianne screamed, her hand lashing out trying to slap him. “Don’t touch it!” she shrieked, her voice filled with both fury and fear. "Don't you dare. She is mine, she is all mine you hear"

But Ethan was beyond reason. With a final, desperate motion, he plunged his hands into her chest. He could hear how excruciatingly loud his own mother's heart was pounding. Her breasts pressuring him like walls closing further.

The grotesque heart came free with a sickening squelch, its massive weight nearly pulling Ethan to the ground. It was an obscene thing, bulbous and glistening, its ventricles distended and quivering. The aneurysms—bulbous, bloated, dilated, and grotesque—remained intact, their surfaces slick with blood.

Both of his hands rose holding her heart as it thundered in his hands, its beat deafening. **BOOM-THOOOOOM BOOM-THOOOOOM BOOM-THOOOOOM BOOM-THOOOOOM BOOM-THOOOOOM BOOM-THOOOOOM BOOM-THOOOOOM BOOM-THOOOOOM.**

Marianne staggered backward, her arms flailing as blood poured from her chest. Her massive breasts bounced wildly as she spun, her screams echoing through the house.

“Give her back! I want my Wife back inside me ” she howled, her voice raw with desperation.

She bolted from the bathroom, her wet feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Her arms flailed as she ran down the hallway, her giant breasts bouncing with each step. The grotesque yawning hole in her chest was a sight both horrifying and surreal, her screams blending with the thunderous pounding of her detached heart.

Ethan stood frozen, the monstrous heart still pounding in his hands. The sound grew louder, a relentless rhythm that seemed to shake the very walls of the house.

**TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

Marianne’s screams faded as she disappeared down the stairs, her grotesque figure a blur of blood and motion. The house fell silent, save for the pounding of the monstrous heart.

Ethan stared at it, his breath shallow. He had taken her heart, but he felt no victory—only the weight of its grotesque, unrelenting beat.

**TH-THUMP. BOOM-THOOOOOM.**

Marianne stumbled into the foyer, her vision blurred by pain and tears. Her hands clutched at her gaping chest, but no amount of pressure could stop the blood that poured from her. Her grotesque breasts, now slick with crimson, heaved with her labored breathing.

Until she stood still, with her arms spread apart as if to welcome death, she looked down with wide maniacal eyes while breathing heavily and deeply. When all of a sudden, her mountainous, giant, heavy rounded breasts began to slowly bounce all by themselves. When they started to bounce uncontrollably and even by the sheer weight and size of them, she stood still until she rose her head up.

“Ethan!” she screamed, her voice hoarse and desperate. “Give her back! I WANT HER BAAAACK” as her boobs are bouncing with jubilation.

Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the cold tile floor. She could still hear her heart pounding somewhere above her, its thunderous beat filling the house. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM.**

Even as she bled out, Marianne’s lips curled into a grotesque smile. She could feel her heart, its monstrous rhythm reverberating through the air. It was still alive, still pounding with an obscene vitality.

Her final thought was not of her son, but of her heart. She loved it even in death, its grotesque power of love is a testament to the dark nymphomaniac obsession that had consumed her. Her heart was more important to her than to her son. Like a wife she cared for within her chest.

With a final, shuddering breath, Marianne’s body went still, pinned by her shaking giant breasts and her grotesque hole in her chest being covered by her breasts is a lifeless monument to her obsession.

Upstairs, Ethan stared at the monstrous heart in his hands. It was heavier than he had imagined, its grotesque weight pulling at his arms. The Globular Enlarged Heart 🫀 was very rounded and warm, its surface slick with blood, and its pounding was relentless.

**TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

He couldn’t take his eyes off it. The superior vena cava aneurysm jutted upward like a grotesque dilated horn, it's pulmonary venous aneurysms are entirely engorged, while the grapefruit-sized thoracic aortic aneurysm pulsed like a bloated tumor with its massively enlarged class II thoracoabdominal aortic aneurysm was just pounding in sync with the aorta. The pulmonary artery aneurysm quivered with each beat, its grotesque ballooned form both mesmerizing and repulsive. And the Inferior vena cava aneurysm was so grotesquely disgusting and dilated. The iliac aneurysms were still attached to the IVCA and Thoracoabdominal aortic.

Ethan’s breathing quickened as he realized the truth. This heart—this grotesque, monstrous thing—was alive. It didn’t need her. It didn’t need anyone.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Why did you love this… thing more than me?”

The heart seemed to answer, its pounding growing louder, more insistent. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

Ethan felt the vibrations travel through his body, shaking him to his core. The sound was deafening now, drowning out his thoughts, his emotions, everything.

He dropped the heart onto the floor, but it continued to pound, its grotesque form quivering with each beat. The blood pooling around it seemed to crawl toward him, as if drawn to his body.

“No!” Ethan screamed, backing away. “Stay away from me!”

But the heart didn’t stop. Its pounding grew louder, its grotesque rhythm filling the room. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

Ethan fell to his knees, his hands clutching his head. The sound was unbearable, a relentless cacophony that seemed to pierce his very soul.

As dawn broke over the old house, the heart still pounded. Its grotesque form lay in the center of the room, surrounded by a pool of blood that had long since cooled.

Ethan sat in the corner, his eyes wide and unblinking. His mind was broken, consumed by the sound of the heart.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He could only listen as the heart continued its grotesque rhythm, a reminder of the dark power that had consumed his mother—and now, him.

**TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

The house was silent, save for the monstrous pounding that would never stop.

Ethan sat in the oppressive silence of the upstairs room, the grotesque heart lying on the blood-slicked floor before him. Its relentless pounding echoed in his ears, a grotesque rhythm that seemed to mock him. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

He stared at it, his breath shallow and ragged. The grotesque, bulbous form of the heart was obscene, its aneurysms quivering with each thunderous beat. The superior vena cava aneurysm jutted upward like a grotesque dilated horn, while the thoracic aortic aneurysm pulsed grotesquely, its surface taut and glistening.

“Mom…” Ethan whispered, his voice trembling. He reached out with shaking hands and picked up the heart. It was heavy, grotesquely so, its monstrous weight pressing against his palms. Blood dripped from its surface, pooling at his feet.

The sound of its pounding grew louder, more insistent. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

Ethan rose to his feet, cradling the grotesque organ in his arms like a macabre prize. The vibrations of its beat traveled through his body, shaking him to his core. He stumbled toward the door, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Ethan descended the stairs, each step slow and deliberate. The grotesque heart pulsed in his arms, its thunderous beat filling the house. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

At the bottom of the stairs lay his mother’s lifeless body, sprawled on the cold tile floor. Her massive mountainous breasts, now slick with blood, rose over her chest settled into its final stillness.

Ethan stood over her, his lips curling into a grotesque smile. He knelt beside her, holding the heart before her lifeless face.

“Look at it, Mom,” he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. “Your precious heart. The thing you loved more than me. The thing you chose over your own son.”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the empty house. It was a hollow, bitter laugh, filled with pain and madness.

Ethan reached out with one hand, grabbing his mother’s left breast. He squeezed it roughly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as it disappeared into it. He held his mother's demonic fat heart before her left breast mocking it as it thunderously pounded with rage in his hand.

“Your boobs,” he sneered, his voice filled with mockery. “They were supposed to shield your precious heart. But they failed, didn’t they? Your giant, bouncing tits couldn’t save it.”

He laughed again, louder this time, his voice filled with a manic glee shaking her left breast.

Ethan held the grotesque heart aloft, his eyes gleaming with a twisted triumph.

“she is mine now,” he declared, his voice ringing through the room. “Your heart…is now my wife. My mom’s whore. The big... beating... bitch that you loved so much.”

He pressed the heart to his chest, feeling its grotesque rhythm pounding against him. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

The sound was deafening, consuming him completely. He laughed again, his voice blending with the thunderous pounding.

“You thought it was yours,” he whispered, his voice filled with a sick satisfaction. “But it’s mine now. And it will always be mine.”

Ethan remained in the house, the grotesque heart never leaving his side. Its relentless pounding followed him everywhere, a haunting reminder of his mother’s obsession—and his own descent into madness.

**TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

He would speak to it, taunt it, love it. It became his world, his reason for being. But no matter how much he tried to claim it, the heart’s grotesque beat seemed to mock him, reminding him that it would never truly belong to anyone.

And so, Ethan remained, a prisoner of the grotesque, unrelenting rhythm that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The days turned into weeks, and Ethan never left the house. The heart—the grotesque, pounding monstrosity—became the center of his existence. He carried it everywhere, cradling it like a lover, whispering to it, taunting it, and professing his twisted love. But how the heart is still beating was a huge shock to him. Because unbeknownst to him of the ritualistic chant he heard his mom gave had a huge impact on it.

The house, once filled with warmth and life, now reeked of decay. Bloodstains on the floor had long since dried, but the stench of death lingered in the air. Ethan’s mother’s body remained where it had fallen, her lifeless form a grotesque shrine to the heart she had loved more than her own son.

Ethan would sit beside her cold corpse, the heart thundering in his hands. Yet her body wasn't even decomposing, as it didn't give off a smell only that of the dry iron. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

“Do you hear that, Mom?” he would whisper, his voice trembling with both reverence and spite. “It’s still alive. Your beating bitch. My wife.”

He would laugh then, a hollow, deranged sound that echoed through the empty halls.

The heart’s relentless pounding seemed to seep into the very walls of the house. The sound grew louder with each passing day, a grotesque symphony that could be heard in every room.

Neighbors began to avoid the property, unnerved by the strange vibrations that seemed to emanate from within. The once-charming house now stood as a grotesque monument to madness, its windows dark and lifeless.

Inside, Ethan’s descent continued. His obsession with the heart consumed him entirely. He stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped caring for anything but the grotesque organ in his hands.

His body grew gaunt, his eyes hollow. But his grip on the heart never faltered. He would stroke its grotesque surface, feeling the pulsing of its aneurysms beneath his fingers.

“You’re mine,” he would whisper, his voice hoarse and broken. “You’ll always be mine.”

One night, as the heart’s pounding reached an unbearable crescendo, Ethan found himself standing in front of his mother’s corpse. Her lifeless eyes seemed to stare back at him, accusing and mocking all at once.

“Why?” he screamed, his voice cracking with anguish. “Why did you love this thing more than me?”

He held the heart aloft, its grotesque form quivering with each thunderous beat. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

“You thought it was yours,” he hissed, his voice filled with venom. “But it’s mine now. My wife. My beating bitch.”

He pressed the heart against his chest, its grotesque rhythm vibrating through his body. His laughter turned to sobs, then back to laughter again, a grotesque cacophony of madness.

As dawn broke over the house, Ethan lay on the floor, the heart still pounding in his hands. His body was broken, his mind shattered, but the heart remained.

Its grotesque rhythm filled the air, unrelenting and eternal. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

Ethan’s eyes fluttered open, and he stared at the heart, his lips curling into a grotesque smile.

“You win,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You always win.”

And as the heart’s pounding echoed through the empty halls, Ethan closed his eyes for the last time.

The house stood silent and still, save for the grotesque pounding that could still be heard within. **TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

The neighbors spoke of the strange vibrations, the eerie sound that seemed to haunt the property. Some claimed to hear whispers, others claimed to see shadows moving in the windows.

**TH-THUMP. THOOOOOM. THOOOOOM.**

But no one dared to enter. The house had become a tomb, a grotesque monument to obsession and madness.

And within its walls, the heart continued to beat, its grotesque rhythm a haunting reminder of the horrors that had unfolded within.

The heart would never die.