#or very shortly after adam was born

[derrydeer]

it’s a funny idea in my head that it’s mathematically possible for lawrence and alison’s marriage to have begun in the year adam was born since he’s supposed to be 45-50 in the first movie

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hello! What is your opinion on Damian liking and respecting Jason's S/O?

Honestly? Love it. I love, love, love it! I don’t know whether this answered your question but I hoped that in some capacity it did.

I imagine when Jason first takes you to meet the rest of the Batfam, all of whom are quite inviting and happy to get to know you with the exception being Dick, who already had the pleasure of meeting you when he dropped by Jason’s place one time and immeditly hitting it off and becoming quite good friends.

Damian liking/ respecting you wasn’t on anyone’s bingo card. They knew how Damian was and Jason had forewarned you not to take it personally if Damian seemed a little distant and distrustful. But seeing Damian stand by you as though he knew you forever was something else entirely.

Instead of being on your ass about dating Jason, it was Jason being the one hounded by Damian throughout the duration of your visit at Wayne Manor. Making sure that he (Jason) was on his best behaviour in front of you much to the humour of everyone that wasn’t poor old Jason.

‘Why Todd?’ Damian asked you once Jason was out of earshot. This question wasn’t uncommon as Dick had asked the same thing once he learned of yours and his brother’s relationship.

‘Why not him? Jason may have scars on his heart but that doesn’t make me love him any less.’ You began as you began to subconsciously start to smile fondly at the mere thought of Jason, just like you always did whenever he wasn’t with you physically. ‘He often tells me that he doesn’t think that he deserves to be happy, that he was wasn’t born to be happy or loved. Yet I believe that he just wasn’t given the opportunity to experience pure happiness.’

Damian raised a brow, uncrossing his arms. ‘And I suppose that you believe that you can fill that void?’

You looked at him, still smiling and said truthfully. ‘No, but I would like to at least try and make the pain go away. Even if it is only temporarily.’ Damian -from what you could deduce- looked satisfied with your answer and hummed in acceptance.

‘He makes you happy?’ He then asks after a brief moment.

You didn’t hesitate to respond with a firm and confident. ‘Very.’

‘Good.’ Damian replied shortly afterwards just as Jason came back into the room to place a kiss to your temple, causing you to smile and kiss his cheek in response, making him smile as a result. Damian could see that you loved Jason unconditionally and had no feelings of shame in being with him, only pride and joy and that was enough for him.

Ever since then whenever Jason goes to the manor for anything, Damian is suspiciously always there as though he was expecting him while also asking on your whereabouts and well-being but in a discreet manner. However Jason knew that Damian had grown fond of you and would tease him that he only ever wanted to hear about you and not him; To which Damian would always be adamant that he doesn’t and it’s only out of respect that he asks about you because of how long you’ve had to put up with Jason.

Jason isn’t easily fooled by this and Damian knows it but always doubles down and at this point Jason had learn to back off whenever Damian got like that, but was secretly happy that Damian approved of you and your relationship. However in due to how long you’ve been together, the thought of getting someone’s -never-less his family’s- approval at this point in your relationship kinda felt a little redundant, but it was the thought that counted.

So Jason would go out of his way to recount the week to Damian on what you did, who you were with and so on just so he could get him off his back, only to retell the whole thing to you once he got home because he knew you held a soft spot for Damian also and he loved that for the both of you.

I’d also like to think that when Damian is on patrol and within the area, he’ll go out of his way to visit you first. He’ll never give you a straight forward answer if you were to ever ask why, you’ll only get short ones such as;

‘I’m on patrol tonight.’

Or

‘I was in the area following a lead.’

You weren’t dumb and this wasn’t the first time he’s visited you either but you never called him out on it though and just ask Dick, Barbra, Duke or anyone else in the family about this odd little routine you’ve found yourself in with Damian instead. In the end most of them would tell you that no, Damian wasn’t on patrol nor a case and that he just wanted to see you to make sure you were okay.

‘Damian won’t outright tell you he cares or even likes being in your company. No. He has a more unique way of showing that he thinks highly of you.’ Jason once told you when you wanted to learn more about his family one night as you both laid in bed. ‘And trust me when I tell ya chipmunk, Damian likes you and that’s rare for even him. So just imagine how he must be feeling throughout all this. Trust is not something that comes easily to Damian but once you have it, he’s going to be there.’ He adds on and before you could ask more about it, Jason had already fell asleep, exhausted from a really long patrol. You merely smiled and kissed his forehead before joining him in dreamland.

This maybe a little ooc but I’d think it be funny Damian texting you -don’t ask how he’d get your number, he somehow got it from Jason’s phone- about how you need to come and pick up Jason because he’s annoying and won’t stop talking about whatever, even going so far as to send pictures of Jason mid-rant with Damian’s deadpan face in the corner of the screen, looking as though he wanted someone to end him.

Moments like those never failed to brighten your day as you remembered what Jason told you about Damian and trusting someone, never taking it for granted as it seemed that Damian putting his trust in someone was a once in a lifetime thing. Especially if that someone was a crime fighter outside of the family, or even a civilian of Gotham.

I’d also liked to assume that Damian would be kinda protective over you. So when Jason wasn’t nearby to get you out of a pinch, enter Damian who is always ready to go whenever wherever. He feels as though he has a duty in keeping you safe for Jason’s sake but also his own too. He feels as though he didn’t have to act differently with you or force himself to act against his true self.

Damian expects you to have play dates with Titus. Always. No excuses.

Titus loves you to bits and will not hide his excitement upon seeing you even if it’s been less than five minutes. He loves seeing his favourite human, second to Damian of course. So spending time with the Great Dane was always a bonus whenever you got to go visit Wayne Manor.

Overall Damian liking/respecting Jason’s s/o would be a sight unlike any other but an extremely welcomed one at that as the possibilities are endless.

[paradoxspaceheater]

AITA for telling my BIL to GTFO?

I (30sF) have lived with my husband (30sM) in his family home for 15 years. A few months ago, my husband and his father died in a tragic accident, and my husband's half-brother (18M) moved in with us.

A little background on this guy: his mother separated from my FIL shortly before he was born. They never legally got divorced but functionally she was not part of the family. She had sole custody of BIL until she passed away 10 years ago, and he went to live with a distant relative. As far as I know, BIL only met his father once in his life, and he doesn't have any relationship with anyone in our family.

After he moved in, he started acting like he owned the place. He has no idea how our family does things and is constantly disrespectful to my husband and FIL's memory. He has claimed that he is supposed to inherit everything from my FIL and even moved into his old room.

I think this is absolutely ridiculous, but for some reason the rest of the family has decided to tolerate it. It's pretty obvious that my son (14M) should inherit FIL's estate because he was actually raised as part of the family, but BIL has been adamant that he won't get anything.

Here's the part where I might be an asshole: I broke into BIL's room in the middle of the night to confront him. I told him in no uncertain terms he had to leave immediately and give everything to my son, or else. I didn't plan to actually do anything to hurt him, I just wanted to scare him a little so he would leave our family alone. I know it's a bit extreme but I really felt like this was the only way to make things right.

BIL insisted on talking to my son first, who started tearing into me, saying I had mistreated BIL and that it wasn't what my husband or FIL would have wanted. This is absolutely BS since neither of them knew or cared about BIL whatsoever. I tried to tell my son I was doing this for him but that only made him more upset.

Now BIL has taken custody of my son and my daughters and has said he will force me to move out. My daughters are very young and with my husband no longer around I am their sole parent. I don't trust BIL to raise them considering his troubled upbringing and entitled attitude. The rest of the family have taken his side and are refusing to speak to me.

So: am I the asshole? Or am I justified in thinking I've been wronged here?

[fraugwinska]

The #HGIWD2025 is in full gear now, and I wanted to say my thanks. Thank you to everyone that helped organizing this Event Thank you for everyone that shares the word Thank you everyone that donates, wheter to request a creator or just to show support and love to the cause. No matter how much we raise in terms of donations, every cent is a testament to the generosity, power and commitment of the shared fandom community of Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss that I am so very fortunate to be in. This is a gift, to all of you - no strings attached, no donations necessary. But if you are able and wish to (and only if so), you can make a small donation to the Lilith Fund and send me the donation receipt - how much or little it might be.

Your very grateful FrauGwinska <3

For the longest time, you had asked yourself what would come first: That you’d accommodate to hell or that hell accommodated to you.

Not long after the fall of the morning star, just even two generations after Cain killed his brother Abel, you followed. One of the first human souls to be damned to plunge down rather than rise above. Young you were, and a defiant little thing, your only crime your rebellion against the man you were forcefully married to, much too close in family relation, and much too insistent of where your place should be. Under him. Head bowed, demure, compliant and silent. Serving not taking. Accommodating not demanding. Molded not molding. You were meant to be clay in his hands, shaped to fit his desires as God had intended, but you had fire in your veins and iron in your spine. When you refused to yield, with your sharp tongue by day and a knife in your hands at night to keep him out of your marital bed, he made sure you were condemned for it.

A man of faith, a respected man of God and proud descendant of the first man Adam, he took your defiance as sin like first mother Lilith’s, your disobedience as wickedness unlike the right mother Eve, and not even two months after your unwanted marriage, in the dead of night, he made sure you paid for it. A stake built by the hands of the men of your righteous community, a whispered prayer spoken by unholy lips, and the words that sealed your fate: She is unholy, Lord. Take her soul from this earth, lest she bring ruin upon the righteous.

The world called it justice. Heaven might’ve called it divine will. And so, Hell opened its arms to you instead. The moment death took you the fall began. Through fire and darkness, you plunged—one of the first souls condemned in the wake of Lucifer’s rebellion. And yet, in Hell, you found something you had never been granted in life.

Freedom.

Hell had no need for silent, obedient wives. It did not demand your submission—it demanded your strength. And so, in the infernal depths where hellspawn roamed and sinners schemed, you did not break. You bloomed. You learned the language of survival, the currency of the budding power down there. And soon, the same defiance that had damned you became the very thing that kept you standing. Here, power was not given—it was taken. And so you took. You learned. You adapted. The same fire that had once marked you as a heretic now burned within you, bright and unyielding. Fueled by powers hell had granted you – to see. See hell, see the souls behind the sinners, see visions of new worlds born from darkness, songs and stardust.

Throughout the centuries, you and Lucifer Morningstar’s paths crossed a few times. Shortly after your descent, he came to you, along with his wife, Lillith. You knew about her, though erased from the scriptures, only by the whispers hushed behind hands with words of disgust and disdain. While the involuntary king of hell seemed pained to see you, his queen had been delighted, offering you protection and shelter after hearing your story and learning of your abilities, in exchange for your service to the crown. When you refused, she seemed offended and cold towards you but kept her composure. Lucifer, on the other hand, had nodded in sad understanding.

“Free will is what brought you down here, little one. And free will you’ll have – for as long as you can wield it."

They had left you to your own devices then, watching from a distance as you carved out a life—or what passed for one—in the depths of damnation. You weren’t a ruler, nor did you seek to out be one. You weren’t a warrior, though you learned how to fight back. You watched from afar as more and more sinners came, fortifying the space you held with no desire to join their increasing battles amongst them for power and control.

It was much later, after the deadly sins were born, the first overlords had risen and fallen, after Hell had shaped itself into something resembling order, that Lucifer came to you again. This time alone, and not with an offer of protection, but of purpose.

"You were one of the first," he said, standing at the threshold of your domain on the outskirts of what had been named Pentagram City, where ruined stone and ashes from the past met the modernity of a progressively growing city. "You have seen Hell change, evolve. You have watched the damned become something more, and yet, unlike the others from your time, you remain... unclaimed."

You arched a brow, unimpressed. "Are you here to change that, Morning Star?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "No. I'm here to offer you something fitting of what you are."

You waited, silent, as he stepped closer, his golden eyes burning with the weight of eons.

"Hell was born from rebellion, from choice, from stories twisted and rewritten by those who feared the truth. And yet, we have no one to keep our history, no voice to tell it as it was rather than how others wish it to be remembered."

He met your gaze then, something almost expectant in the way he watched you.

"Be Hell’s chronicler. Not bound to me, not bound to the throne, but a witness to it all. A keeper of what was, a recorder of what will be. Not a servant—but a protégé of mine."

The fire in your veins burned hotter at the offer. Not a queen, not a soldier, not a pawn in some grander scheme. A voice. A record. A hand in carving the world that would be your home for eternity.

You let the silence stretch before finally speaking, lips curling into something like a smile.

"Where do I begin?"

Lucifer smiled, and for the first time since you met him, the sadness within it was gone. “You can start by calling me Lucifer.”

***

Years passed while you created a detailed chronic of hell. With enchanted ink you filled thousands of pages, marking dates and events that lead to hell as it was, listing sinners that came into power and were swallowed by others that were more powerful. Countless names were archived, the golden letters swallowed by the pages of the Almanac Lucifer had sent you, never running out of space to add more as time went by.

When you wrote down the words ‘Charlotte Morningstar’ next to the name of your benefactor, you had smiled – while neither Lilith nor Lucifer had visited you again, you had heard the rumors of the royal pair growing apart, the queen taking the charge of shaping hell while the king apparently retreating into the depth of their palace. It was strangely comforting to see that even though Lilith became the face of hell’s uprising in the public eye, turning Lucifer into a reclusive hermit cowering from responsibility to his people by the developing press, the family seemed to be intact and growing, with the daughter given a name meaning free man ominously foreboding.

Though, like all things in hell, it didn’t last. The vision had been clear as heavens skies and heavy like the sulfuric air of hell: The queen had left hell, her daughter and her husband behind.

And even though Lucifer came to you, broken with despair and drained by the tears fallen from his burning eyes, begging you as if he wasn’t the most powerful entity of hell, even with all your efforts you couldn’t find her. Vanished from the hellscape, the queen had disappeared without a trace.

“I wish I could do more, Lucifer. I really do.” You had said, your voice trembling as you saw the former angel fall to his knees in defeat, sobbing as he mourned the loss of his wife. Ignoring the decorum, you placed your hand gently on his shaking shoulder, and when he placed his hand on yours, the heat of a thousand dying stars almost burned through your skin.

“I know you do, my friend.”

***

Around the middle of the 1930’s a vision shook you awake, the images so vivid you much less than sprinted out of bed and opened the Almanac with trembling fingers.

A name had appeared, cutting through the darkness of your sleep like a knife and left blood-red letters behind, spelling a name that tasted like electricity on your tongue as you wrote it down.

Alastor

The writing had been neat, but extravagant. Brutality subtly hidden within flourished elegance. Charming and dangerous. You could recount only a few instances a vision had made your hair stand up and your pulse gone high, and they all stood in the shadow of this name. You stared at the word, the writing replicated from the image of your vision that you still saw before you like it was burned into your ever-seeing eyes, and you were sure that it would encounter you again soon.

And soon proved to be not too far away. Mere days after the night you wrote it into the chronicle of hell, you along all the other sinners listened to the first broadcast of the Radio Demon. Overlord after overlord disappeared, and while others almost fearfully wondered about who that mysterious force was, the crimson name flashed through your mind.

Alastor.

It didn’t take long for him to claim the infamous title. As you watched and wrote about his rise amongst the ranks of the pride ring, toppling powers that had been established and firm for decades like it was nothing, you became fascinated with the persona. As you kept track on his endeavors, you realized a pattern behind it. When it came to power, Alastor didn’t discriminate. He took souls and dealt with overlords with no regards to their gender at all, but it seemed he never punched down. No, in fact, he seemed to only turn his gaze up. Up to the cocky, the powerful, the ruthless.

Alastor wasn’t just a rising force—he was a disruptor of the Status Quo hell had established for quite some time. A force to be reckoned with. He was taking down the untouchables, toppling the high-ranking overlords, and with each victory, his name spread further across Hell. You had watched this power shift, and while many trembled, you couldn’t help but be intrigued. He played the game like a master, with finesse, and an unsettling calm that struck fear into the hearts of even those who thought themselves sure of their monopoly.

You knew there was more to him than what the others saw. His rise was not random—it was methodical, calculated. Each move he made was designed to provoke a reaction, to unsettle, to dismantle the existing order. He was carving a new path, one that seemed to call to you. His unrelenting hunger for power was matched only by his ambition to rattle and reshape the Pentagram. You had seen the glimpses of what he could become in your visions, and they made your blood run cold—and yet, you could not look away.

His charisma, his audacity, it was all too easy for others to latch onto. His fame rose akin to his power, as did his admirers and enemies alike. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was rewriting it, turning it into something that had never been seen before in Hell’s history.

And now, with the ink of his name still fresh in your chronicle, you found yourself at a crossroads. The fire that burned in his eyes whenever you saw visions of him, the confidence he exuded - he was a force that could either destroy everything you had painstakingly built or give you an opportunity to witness history in the making.

One thing was clear: Alastor was not someone to be ignored, nor someone to be underestimated. And you, the witness to Hell’s darkest stories, knew that the next chapter was only just beginning. And his name would be in the title of it.

***

It was only a matter of time before your paths would cross. You were sure of it because the more you saw and learned about the Radio Demon, the more you learned that he was a creature very insistent of maintaining the right kind of reputation. One of infamousness and one to be remembered. Captured and preserved for eternity. And although your afterlife’s work was a mostly unrecognized one, everyone knew who it was that did it.  

You had expected it to happen sooner, truth be told — maybe a shadow slinking into your domain with that ever-present, unnerving grin that had quickly become his trademark among the denizens of hell. Perhaps a flickering broadcast discreetly addressing you, daring you to acknowledge the weight of his presence over the screams of yet another foe swallowed. Instead, it happened with the quiet inevitability of a predator meeting another that had been watching from the dark.

You felt him before you saw him. A ripple in the air, like a radio frequency just barely out of tune, static brushing the edges of your mind. The scent of old vinyl records, burned wood and something richer—like the iron tang of freshly spilled blood—coiled through your study, even before his voice lilted through the silence.

"My, my," the words dripped with amusement, a song in themselves, lilting and playful in the slightly distorted transatlantic accent that had become classic during the aftermath of the fiorst world war. "The infamous Chronicler of Hell, tucked away in the shadows of a flourishing world while the same turns its pages. I must say, cher, I’ve been dying to meet you."

And there he stood, framed in the dim light of your candles – the long and slender figure of the demon you’ve watched in your visions and through the thousand eyes scattered through hell. Dressed in the color of the blood he so happily took from his victims, woven into a tattered, yet well-kept dapper ensemble. His grin a crescent moon of sharp teeth, the treacherous reveal of his true nature hidden by the softness of his deer-like features… the perfect wolf in sheeps clothing with eyes like radio dials that were turning, turning, turning — tuning in to you.

You did not startle, though the air crackled with his presence, charged with the kind of static electricity like the moment before a lightning strike. You didn’t wonder how he found his way into your tower – you were very aware that the very shadows you had hidden your space in were the ones he had managed to utilize. No, you didn’t react like any other sinner would’ve if they were in your position, preparing to flee or to fight to get away from him. Instead, you merely sat your feather back into the pot of ink and closed the Almanac before you, gently placing a blotting paper in between the pages so the golden letters shimmering in the candlelight wouldn’t smudge as you lifted your gaze to meet his.

"I’m pleased to finally meet you too, Alastor, the Radio Demon." you greeted, his name rolling off your tongue with the weight of the knowledge you had obsessively accumulated.

His grin widened, if such a thing was even possible, his fingers twitching on his microphone staff he used as a glorified walking stick — restless, eager. Like a performer, just before the curtain rises. "Oh, so you do know me! I feel positively honored!" He took a step forward into your study, the shadows stretching behind him like eager hands. "I’ve always wondered how I’d be immortalized in that little book of yours. Tell me, cher, do I make for a thrilling read?"

His words danced in the air, playful, probing, but you had read enough of him to recognize the calculation beneath. Alastor was a man of spectacle, of carefully woven narratives, of power wielded with an impenetrable smile. And now, he was watching you just as keenly as you had watched him.

"History is written by those who survive it," you mused, leaning back in your chair, fingers steepled. "The question is, will you?"

For the first time, his laughter faltered—not gone, merely shifted, deeper, richer. The frequency of it changed, static curling at the edges. And yet, the amusement never left his gaze.

"Oh, darling," he all but purred, his voice dipping into something far more dangerous. "You wound me. But I do love a good story, especially when I can get a hand on choosing the narrative.”

"Before you continue," you said smoothly, tilting your head ever so slightly. "I see that I’ve been rude in not properly introducing myself. While I have no real use for a name, you may address me as Clio." It was the name you had chosen for yourself, deciding it was best to burn it off the Almanac, like your earthly body had been. It had irked you to no end when you found out Lucifer had inspired Greek humans to name a tacky deity after you, and out of the rare letters you sent him, this one had been the most reprimanding one. The obsidian writing desk he had sent you back with his amused apology barely a consolation for the ridicule you felt whenever you were remembered of your fictional counterpart.

For a fleeting moment, there was something unreadable in his gaze, the dials in his eyes flickering through unseen frequencies before settling again into their crimson hue. Then, just as quickly, the smile returned, wide and gleaming.

"Clio, is it?" He rolled the name over his tongue, tasting it like a fine vintage. "Ah! Like the muse of history herself! How fitting!"

You arched a twitching brow. "A coincidence, I assure you."

His laughter crackled like an old radio, distorting at the edges. "Oh, my dear, nothing in Hell is ever just coincidence." He tapped a finger against his temple as if sharing some grand joke, then gestured to the grand tome before you. "But very well, Clio. If that is what you prefer, who am I to deny the Chronicler of Hell her proper title?"

You inclined your head in acknowledgment, watching him carefully.

"You see," he continued, stepping closer, the flickering candlelight casting jagged shadows across his face, "I've always had a fondness for stories. The ones spun from whispers in the dark, from screams cut short, from the rise and fall of the so-called mighty." His eyes gleamed, the dials shifting ever so slightly, tuning into something unseen, something just beyond the reach of ordinary perception. "And you, my dear, hold the quill that etches them into eternity."

You regarded him carefully, letting the weight of his words settle between you. He was playing a game, one you had come to know well. Every movement, every inflection, was deliberate—designed to entice and ensnare. But you were not a poor sinner desperate for a shady deal to secure their detrimental safety, nor were you an unwitting pawn in whatever performance he intended to stage.

"Careful, Alastor," you murmured, the ghost of a smile curling at the edges of your lips as you motioned him to sit in an Armchair near you. "History does not bow to those who seek to control it. It is an impartial thing, even to those who fancy themselves its most captivating figures."

His grin stretched impossibly wider, but there was something sharper behind it now, something edged with the thrill of challenge as he sat down, crossing his long legs suavely. "Ah, but history is written by those clever enough to shape it, wouldn’t you say?" His voice was syrup-sweet, a melody laced with static and the distant echo of long-forgotten screams. "And I do so love shaping things to my liking."

He leaned in then, just enough for you to catch the faintest trace of something beneath the scent of old vinyl and blood—something deeper, older. It was the scent of change, of something just on the cusp of rewriting itself.

You met his gaze, unflinching. "Then I suppose you’ve come to ensure your story is told the right way."

A chuckle, rich and full of knowing. "Oh, my dear Clio, it’s much more than that." he crooned, his shadow detaching itself to tap a long, black finger against the cover of the Almanac behind you. "I've come to ensure it’s a story worth remembering."

***

Despite his brave face and unyielding smile, it was more than clear he was, to say the least, disappointed that his visit didn’t pan out like he imagined. You hadn’t been the passive, easily manipulated and tired sinner he most certainly expected. Instead, Alastor had been faced with your headstrong calmness, the ease with which you faced him had both irritated and fascinated him. Realizing his initial tactic wouldn’t help his cause, he said his goodbyes. Though not without the polite threat to visit again. And visit again he did.

It took him a month of carnage and destruction to return, a bouquet of deep violet aconites in hand.

“Now, Clio, dear,” he drawled, stretching out the syllables of your name, his grin stretching when your brow twitched again in slight annoyance. “I must say, I find myself positively enchanted by your little operation here. All this history, all these secrets... It must be exhausting, keeping track of the comings and goings of Hell’s finest. Don’t you ever feel—oh, what’s the word—detached? Watching, but never taking part?”

You regarded him evenly, your fingers resting on the cover of the Almanac, feeling the pulse of its enchanted ink beneath your touch. He was prodding, testing the waters to see where the cracks might be, where you might bend. But you had spent centuries refining the art of remaining unshaken.

“You mistake my role, Alastor,” you replied smoothly. “I am not merely a passive observer. I am the ink and paper of history itself. Just because I do not wield a blade or strike a deal does not mean I do not shape what is remembered. Even the most powerful fall into obscurity when no one remains to write their name.”

His grin twitched, amusement gleaming in his crimson eyes. “Ah, now that is interesting.” He leaned forward, resting his chin upon his clasped hands, gaze intent. “So you do believe in control, after all. You may not move the chess pieces yourself, but you decide which moves are remembered.”

He let out a burst of static-laced laughter, delighted at the realization. “Why, Clio, that makes you more powerful than you let on! And here I thought you were just some reclusive little scholar.”

You tilted your head, amusement glinting in your eyes. “And here I thought you were just another snobby overlord.”

He beamed. “Touché, my dear!”

A long silence stretched between you as you and him alike sipped on the bourbon you offered after he came in, filled only with the soft rumbles of the raging sulfur storm outside. You studied him, the way he seemed so at ease yet never still, a creature of motion even when seated. A man always aware of the performance he was giving, yet never letting his mask slip. And yet… there was something else. A purpose behind his presence here, beyond mere curiosity or vanity.

“You didn’t come here again just to tell me you admire my work,” you finally said. “You seem to be very fond of using words, so tell me: What do you really want, Alastor?”

For a moment, the air shifted. The temperature of the room seemed to drop, the shadows lengthening at the edges of your study. His grin did not falter, but something in his gaze sharpened.

“My, my. Right to the point. How dreadfully efficient of you,” he hummed. “Very well, since you insist.” He spread his arms in a grand, theatrical motion. “I want a guarantee.”

You raised a brow. “A guarantee?”

“That while my story is written—oh, and I know it is already in the works for quite some time,” he chuckled darkly, “it is told in its full glory. Not just the gossip of the frightened or the meiosis of the envious. I want someone to see beyond the surface, one who understands the artistry of it all.” His eyes gleamed, eerie and bright in the dim light. “And who better than the chronicler of hell herself?”

You considered his words, the weight behind them. Alastor was many things—dangerous, unpredictable, utterly insatiable in his hunger for control—but above all, he was a performer. And a performer’s worst fear was not death. It was being forgotten.

“You want me to immortalize you,” you mused, running a finger along the edge of the Almanac. “Ensure your legacy remains the way you want it to, untainted by the gossip and slander of what you perceive lesser minds.”

His grin widened, something triumphant flashing behind his eyes. “Precisely.”

A slow smile curled on your lips, the taste of bourbon still lingering on them. “Oh, Alastor,” you said, voice velvet-smooth. “What hell presents me, I record. Whether it’s the great or the miserable… any- and everything. And most importantly…” You set down your glass, and gave him a long, analyzing glance. “…I do not write stories to please their subjects.”

To your utmost surprise and confusion, his chuckled response was rich with delight. “Clio, my dear, that’s all I want – an untainted eye with a knack for the details. I would expect nothing less.”

He stood, tapping his microphone staff against the floor, the static in the air crackling like distant thunder. “I look forward to our partnership then, my dear historian.” he crooned. “Let’s make history worth reading.”

And with that, he tipped his head, his eyes gleaming with mischief, and the shadows swallowed him whole. You sat there, staring at the space where he had been, fingers tracing the worn leather of the Almanac.

You sat in the stillness that followed his departure, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air, as if they lingered like smoke in the corners of the study. A partnership, he’d called it. But you knew well enough by now—the Radio Demon was not someone who would truly share power, and this "partnership" was a delicate dance, one where the roles would always remain blurred depending which point of view one would look at it. He would use you, just as you would use him. The difference was, you were the one who could control the narrative.

Your fingers gently brushed over the pages of the Almanac, and you couldn't help but smile to yourself. If there was one thing that was certain in this exchange, it was that Alastor had just unknowingly relit a fire in you that had extinguished for a long time. Influence. His ambition would shape his legacy—but only if you allowed it. And while he thought he had all the strings in his hands, you weren’t sure he was aware that you were the one to weave them.

"Let’s make history worth reading," he'd said.

A chuckle escaped your lips. Oh, you would make sure Alastor would be remembered. Whether it was as a legend, a monster, a myth or something entirely different — that would be up to you, and the thought made you smile as you set out to get ready for another night of mundane visions.

[blueshistorysims]

Lord Simon-Elliot Walsh with his wife while on leave,  January 1945.

Lord Simon-Elliot Adam Walsh was born at Walshstone Park, the residence of his parents, the Duke and Duchess of Feldsbury in February 1926. As the first born son, he was heir to his father’s title, though he was raised by his mother and father rather than a nanny or governess, unlike most children of his age and rank. He was an optimist, always looking on the bright side of things, and his cheery disposition made him very popular in school throughout his childhood. He enjoyed comics, cricket, and talking with friends and family. 

He met his future spouse Lydia Leung when he was a child, becoming close friends with her until he developed feelings as a teenager. When denied the chance to court her, Lydia and Simon-Elliot started dating one another in secret, eventually getting engaged and eloping in March 1944, with his aunts Giselle and Francesca as witnesses, keeping the marriage a secret from both families. 

He signed up for the army shortly after his 18th birthday, enlisting as a private and eventually reaching the rank of corporal before his death. He took part in D-Day and multiple battles in the French countryside before he was shot and killed during Operation Plunder in the Lower Rhine region of Germany in late March 1945, a month and a half before VE Day, leaving his near five year old brother as heir to the Duke of Feldsbury. He was nineteen years old.

Simon-Elliot was a firm optimist who believed in the very best of people, joining the war as a proud and defiant Jew against the Nazis. As a very privileged young man, he could be naive, but he loved the people in his life passionately, though he and his father shared a distant relationship, more due to the Duke’s difficulty with connecting with his children. 

Lord Simon-Elliot is survived by his wife Lydia (Lady Simon-Elliot Walsh), his parents the Duke and Duchess of Feldsbury, his in-laws, his maternal grandparents, his younger sister Amalia, his baby brother Kit, and his cousin Ludivine. 

beginning/previous/next

Simon-Elliot was the first member of Gen 4 to be introduced, and he was the first to die. He wasn't my favorite of his generation, I'll admit, but I'll miss him very much :( I also came to the realization of just how much his and Alexander's lives were so similar.

and now let's be even more depressed by looking at photographs of him growing up :,(

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Happy new year! Can I request the family with teen! Reader who smokes a lot and drinks alcohol (because they grew up in that type of place) and it's a very bad addiction but reader always does it in secret and whenever tries to approach the subject, they run off

-It had been with you since you were born, being around booze and cigarettes, to you- they were a normal part of life, a normal part of your household.

-Seeing your parents drink bottle after bottle and smoke pack after pack- to you it was something normal, it wasn’t until you were rescued, after your parents began to neglect you, caring more about if they were getting booze and smokes rather than making sure you had clean clothes, a safe place to live, and food.

-You were taken from them shortly after you turned fourteen and put into a new home with a massive family, but you were confused, not seeing them smoke or drink, at least all the time, as there were some who would have an occasional drink.

-It was strange to you- it was scary, and you didn’t know how to handle it! You felt scared to question them about it, remembering your own parents when you would ask why they drank and smoked, getting backhanded for asking ‘stupid questions’.

-You had seen the physique of many of the members of your new family, you couldn’t handle getting backhanded by them- your face wouldn’t survive.

-Not being able to handle the stress, you started hiding cigarettes and bottles, and you started doing it, smoking and drinking, it made you sick to start off with, but the feelings they gave you, unaware that you were drunk and disoriented, you felt better.

-You could see why your parents did this- it felt so good! You felt so free! But you made sure to do it in private, hiding away in the backyard where nobody could see you, pouring the booze into glasses.

-You did feel scared of getting caught, because you remember how your parents got into trouble, and you didn’t want to get into trouble and be taken away from this family.

-Unlike your parents, your new family was so nice, you always had tasty food, clean clothes, you were never cold, and they all showered love on you, but it bothered you that they weren’t like your parents- it was too different for you!

-So, when Adam and Hades came to you, not confronting or threatening you, but curious, wondering where you had gotten the booze and cigarettes you had hidden away.

-You immediately panicked and ran instead of speaking with them, shocking them before they were quick to give chase.

-Tears were in your eyes as soon your whole family was chasing you, they were shouting that they just wanted to talk to you and to not be afraid of them, but you couldn’t help it- you were just so scared.

-It was Jack who caught you, cutting you off and he immediately embraced you. You instantly broke their hearts as your hands came to your head, covering yourself, thinking you were going to be hit, “I’m sorry- I didn’t- don’t-don’t hit-”

-Adam quickly had you embraced in his arms, hugging you close as you sobbed, clutching at him as they were filled in about what was in your room. Nobody was mad, but many were concerned about where you got these items, curious as to how long this had been going on.

-After you were calmed down, which did take quite a while, you were questioned, and you told them how you had grown up around those around you drinking and smoking all the time- you thought it was something that everyone did, and when you came here and nobody was doing it, you panicked, thinking you had to do it or they would all be mad.

-Hades assured you that you didn’t have to drink or smoke, and that you shouldn’t have been doing it anyways because you were underaged, and they told you that not everyone smokes and drinks.

-Your wide, confused eyes shocked them, you truly didn’t know this- showing them how much your parent’s messed you up, thinking that you had to smoke and drink because that was what was normal for you.

-It was a little hard for you to detox, more from the cigarettes rather than the booze, as you felt antsy, but your family was there to help you, providing you with snacks and helping where they could.

-It was both a healing and a learning process for you, learning what was not normal and was normal, and you did learn that your new family was anything but normal, but they were trying to help you learn what was normal for you, helping you heal.

-You learned what a normal family felt like, no fear, no pain, just nothing but love and support, and you adored the idea, never wanting to leave- you wanted to feel this happy all the time.

[litcest]

Incest and the Medieval Imagination, by Elizabeth Archibald: Chapter 3: Mothers and Sons: Deliberate Incest

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 Part 1 | Chapter 3 Part 2 | Chapter 4 Part 1 | Chapter 4 Part 2 | Chapter 4 Part 3 | Chapter 5 Part 1 | Chapter 5 Part 2 | Conclusion

The stories discussed before were cases in which the incest (or almost incest) was an accident, as the mother and son weren't aware of each other's identity when the proposal or marriage happened. These stories of mother-son incest often center on the son's journey of repentance and spiritual growth. The mother, while a key figure in the initial sin, is typically relegated to a secondary role. She lacks the opportunity for significant redemption or character development. In contrast, the son often ascends to a position of power, allowing him to judge, forgive or punish his mother. This dynamic underscores his moral superiority and her role as a source of temptation.

While these Oedipus' narratives prioritize the son's perspective, there are shorter stories and exempla that shift the focus to the mother, exploring her agency and motivations in committing incest. This set of stories deals with cases in which one or both parties are aware of the nature of their relationship and make a conscious decision to go forwards with the affair.

Mother in exempla: Deliberate Incest

In Index Exemplorum: A Handbook of Medieval Tales, Frederic C. Tubach compiles many Medieval exempla with deal with mother and son incest, using as a source diverse Medieval texts such as Vitae Patrum, Dialogues and Legenda aurea. The majority of the incest-related short tales compiled by Tubach differ from the ones discussed before, focussing much more on the evil and immorality of woman. Not only these stories paint the women as promiscuous and reluctant to confess, but they also don't even bother naming the characters. What matter most is the intrinsic sinfulness of the female, not who she is. Usually, there's little agency placed on the son, he simply gives into the temptation when the mother offers the opportunity for the intercourse, there's no great passion of his part, but neither is he described as being raped.

Some exemples are one in which a mother falsely accuses her son of incest because he has rejected her advances, and is subsequently struck dead by a thunderbolt (very reminiscent of Phaedra and Hippolytus); a mother is denounced for incest with her son and infanticide, but is saved by the Virgin’s intercession; a mother dies of fright when she realizes that she is about to commit incest with her son, who has come home incognito to test her and see if women really are insatiably lustful (perhaps a version of the story of Secundus the silent).

The Gesta Romanorum also includes a story of this type, under the title of De Amore Inordinato ('About Inappropriate Love'): a woman is so attached to her son that she shares her bed with him until he's eighteen. Then, the devil tempts the son to have sex with his mother and when they do, the mother becomes pregnant. The son leaves and the mother kills the new-born, but the baby's blood stain permanently her hand, so that she has to wear gloves to hide her crime. At first, the woman doesn't want to confess, but eventually the Virgin gets through to her and the woman confesses, dying shortly after. The moral explanation accompanying the text explains the the incestuous act is a reflection of the consumption of the Forbidden Fruit and the blood stains are the same that Adam got when he fell from Eden.

While the filicide might seem very shocking, it's a common ending to babies born of witting incestuous liaisons, as it furthers showcases the evilness of the mother and that lust leads to violence. However, these exempla also show that despite the spiritual weakness of women, they still can be saved, even if a forceful intervention is needed. The Virgin's intervention is also a frequent motif for these exempla, which is rather fitting considering that she's the Mother of Christ, but also the Bride of God, and since God and Jesus are one, she is spiritually both mother and wife.

Another variant, called Dit du Buef by French author Jean de Saint-Quentin, makes the penitence more complex than simply confessing the sins. In this version, a widow has an affair with her son, who resembles his dead father, and eventually gets pregnant. The son leaves for Rome, seeking absolution from the Pope, and the mother gives birth to a baby girl. The devil tries to convince the mother to kill the girl, but the Virgen intervenes and the daughter is spared. When the daughter is twelve, once again the Virgin helps, advising the girl to ask her mother about her father. The mother confesses the incest to the daughter and they go to a priest to tells her to go to Rome. In Rome, they meet the son/father/brother, who had found a job working for the Pope. The Pope then announces that the three of them are to have cowhides sewn around their bodies and wander like that for seven years. The trio does as ordered, and when the seven year mark comes to a end, they pray to God to be taken to heaven and a angels comes to fetch them, informing the Pope about it. The Pope them constructs a monastery where the family had died, and it becomes a spot known for miraculous cures.

A big difference is that in this story, the product of the incestuous affair is a daughter, not a son. Interestingly, in some Renaissance stories that are similar to Dit du Buef, the father/brother almost marries his daughter/sister when she arrives in Rome. As for the cowhide, they may function as a deterrent for sexual activity, or to showcase the animalistic low that the woman and her son sunk into when they engaged in incestuous intercourse.

Regarding those Renaissance variants, the basic plot is the following: a maid tells her mistress that the mistress' son is trying to proposition her. To ascertain those claims, the mistress hides herself in the maid's room and indeed, the son does visit in the night. Overcome with lust, the mistress pretends to be the maid and give into her son's advances. From this single encounter, she gets pregnant, and to hide this, she sends away the maid, her son and the new-born daughter. The daughter is raised in another household and eventually meets her father/brother and they fall in love, when the mother finds out, she's horrified, but the couple remain ignorant of the relationship.

One account of this variant appears in the second part of Bandello’s Novelle, published in 1554. Another is told by Martin Luther in his commentary on Genesis, written sometime between 1535 and 1545, in which alleging that the story happened in Erfurt and the confession was heard by one of his colleagues. The story is also featured in Marguerite de Navarre's Heptaméron from 1558.

One major difference that can be observed in relation to previous tales of double incest is that, here, the second couple remains married and in ignorance. As seen in Chapter 1, it was practice to let incestuous couples stay married when their kinship had been unknown to them. Another detail is that the child of the incestuous encounter isn't depicted as evil or in need of redemption. This reflects a change of how sin was being perceived during and after the Reformation: one cannot sin without intend and, most importantly, the sins of the parents don't carry over to the child.

As a final note, it's important to highlight that, from the stories samples, there doesn't seem to be any in which the son knowingly seduces the mother (one could perhaps consider Secundus an exception, but then again, in that story the incest isn't consummated nor had Secundus intended to, he was merely testing his mother). The incest is either unknown to the characters or it's the mother who make advances towards the son, who while sometimes goes along with it, comes to regret and repent for the act before the mother.

[angelicadamposting]

Eva Lean ཐི♡ཋྀ | (Ex?)Third Wife of Adam

art credit to nattycat08 on tumblr & insta @nattycat08

Basic Info

Real Name: Evangeline (Formerly Evangeline-Juliette Antionette de France) Preferred Name: Eva Lean (Lean as in the purple drink)  Species: Sheep/Goat Sinner / Fallen Angel (Formerly Angel / Divine Soul) (Also Formerly Human) Sin: Blasphemy  Physical Age: 22 Birth Date: November 26, 1780 Death Year: 1802  Cause Of Death: Yellow Fever  Height: 4'11 ft or 150 cm MBTI: INTJ Gender & Pronouns: She/Her - Ciswoman  Sexuality: Bisexual (closeted most of her life/afterlife or unaware) Romantic Interest(s): Adam <3, Sir Pentious, Lucifer (there’s Val somewhere in there too but not really)

Short Facts

Adopted Daughter of Marie Antionette 

Princess Complex

Religious in life before dying alone

Married Adam in heaven 

Was close friends with Lute 

Used to share a sisterly relationship with Emily

Is Best Friend's With Angel Dust

Capable of playing the piano

Spent 200 years in heaven before falling 

Reacted Negatively to the Exterminations, leading to her fall

Sold her soul to Valentino, working for him as a porn star

Doesn’t get along with/argues/bickers with Lucifer 

Hides / Tries to hide the fact she’s a fallen angel from as many sinners as possible. (initially, only Valentino is aware due to her selling her soul to him + the exposing work she does reveals her scars to him.) 

Valentino insists her scars be edited out, the camera angles avoid showing them as often, or that her hair cover them in all the content she’s featured in.

Likes♡

Reading

Sweets

Marijuana 

Drinking / Getting High

Bread

Club Dancing

Ballroom Dancing

Shopping

Helping/Supporting Others

Cooking (Despite Failing)

Music (Listening or Playing Piano + Singing)

Fashion

Receiving Gifts

Dislikes ‹/𝟹

Being Kept in the Dark/Lied To

Senseless Violence (depends)

Being Alone

Surprises

Silence

Spicy or even just Unfamiliar Foods

Being Belittled or Disrespected

Cemeteries

‘Ugly people’ - Adam

Clutter

Being Woken Up Early

Personality Traits 

Positive – Adaptable, Charismatic, Affectionate, Charming, Confident, Curious, Flirtatious, Nurturing, Intelligent, Observant, Kind, Playful, Sentimental, Witty, Sophisticated, Spontaneous, Passionate, Outgoing, Un-Selfish,

Negative – Addictive, Catty, Compulsive, Cocky, Often Cowardly, Cynical, Dishonest, Extravagant, Gluttonous, Frivolous, Fussy, Haughty, Impulsive, Jealous, Materialistic, Paranoid, Pessimistic, Rebelliously obedient, Reckless, Sleazy/Promiscuous, Self Destructive, Self Indulgent, Spoiled, Temperamental,

Semi Detailed Facts 

Once her birth mother, who worked for the French royal family, passed away, she and her sister were adopted by Queen Marie Antionette & King Louis VXI 

Despite never gaining a royal title, she developed somewhat of a ‘Princess Complex,’ 

Raised very religious, studying the bible and any religious scripture she could from the moment she was taught to read. 

Never knew her sexuality in life, unaware and afraid to explore it. Only really realized she was bisexual after her fall from Heaven.

Died of yellow fever, with no suitors or children of her own. Nothing but her birth sister, and her love for God. 

She married Adam, becoming his third wife, when in Heaven. Spending 200 years with him before her fall. 

Cast from Heaven for referring to God as a 'pompous, overzealous, self-centered ass' for allowing the exterminations to occur in the first place. (Speaking Blasphemy)

Valentino was one of the first people she met once in hell, aside from other sinners she would party with. She sold her soul to him shortly after her fall, becoming a pornstar for him and revealing her past to only him. 

She hides the fact she’s a fallen angel 

Generally (& only initially) dislikes Lucifer, keeping in mind how he ‘stole’ Lilith and Eve from Adam.

Backstory (before Heaven)

Evangeline was born as a peasant in France, and her parents each worked beneath King Louis VXI and Queen Marie Antionette. At a young age, Evangeline and her elder sister were chosen to become Marie's daughter's playmates. A common practice for nobles of the ra to find a commoner to befriend their child to socialize with them, however, the Queen chose to do this to teach her daughter empathy. After several years of spending day after day at the side of the Princess, her mother passed away. Stricken with responsibility and a heart bigger than the public knew, Marie Antionette adopted Evangeline and her elder sister. Quickly moving the two into the Palace of Versailles and giving each of them new names based on her favorite books, Evangeline now being called Juliette by her adopted mother based on 'Les Lettres de Juliette Catesby (1759)' by Marie Jeanne Riccoboni.

Despite being treated with the same maternal care and affection as Marie's biological daughter, Evangeline nor her elder sister were ever granted titles. Instead, the two were often referred to by others in the palace as 'the girls who always accompany Princess Marie-Therese.' This never bothered Evangeline, the young girl only thankful for the affection and opportunity within the palace. Her new mother gave her access to literature, teaching her to read as soon as possible, and teaching her daughter how to love books just as she did. It was at this time that Evangeline began to read the bible and learn other languages.

When the political unrest within France grew and the royal family attempted to flee, Evangeline and her sister were sent to the countryside to live with their biological father until the family returned shortly after failing the attempt. The unrest only grew, however, resulting in the Queen instructing another member of the French Court to take Evangeline and her sister to safety. The two living with the Mackau family during the height of the revolution and during their adopted parent's executions, their biological father shortly following in their footsteps due to his association with the King.

It wasn't until age 17 that Evangeline was released from legal guardianship, and permission to use the pension from her deceased adoptive parents as she wished. For the first time, the young woman was on her own in the world, and her name had been changed back to match that of her biological parents instead of the royal family. She moved to Saint-Denis in Paris to live close to her sister, the only person she even knew anymore.

For years, the young woman lived alone, unsure of what direction her life was meant to go in. Everything had been set up for her, prepared for her since she had been adopted. Things were always taken care of for her, a future decided for her even when she was under legal guardianship by the Mackau family. Near overnight everything changed, her whole life flipped upside down and every adult with a parental role in her eyes was gone. She spent her days reading, visiting with her neighbors, and feeding the strays while her sister began a family, at least being married off. It wasn't until 1802 when a group of soldiers traveled through her city, ones she just had to run into on the street, unknowingly spread yellow fever throughout Saint-Denis.

Early winter that year, Evangeline passed away in her home with no one but her faith and sister at her side. Without even a good story to tell, the young woman went to sleep to never wake up in the mortal realm again. However, she instead awoke before the pearly gates. She was greeted by St. Peter, who quickly checked his book to find her name, and brought through the gates quickly. Passing through the gates, Evangeline's senses were overloaded by the bright aura that emitted off the grand, beautiful structures softly sat atop the clouds. Almost causing her to miss the other angels themselves, as her eyes danced from billboard to fountain and so on.

Timeline In Hell (After The Fall)

2002: Arrival. She woke up alone in an alleyway, wingless and unfamiliar with both her sinner form and the world around her. Stumbling lost, missing her husband, and confused about what to do with herself. Seeking shelter, or a place to stay and coming up empty-handed for over a year. Leading the girl who had once lived within the palace walls of Versailles and in a lavish mansion in heaven to sleep on the streets longer than she’d ever anticipated for herself. From the moment she’d been adopted, this outcome was something she had never even allowed herself to consider. 

2003: The end of Evangeline. After a year of nothing but sorrow and uncertainty, Evangeline began to indulge in some of Hell’s most popular pastimes. More particularly, the drug and party scene. Finding herself diving headfirst into a realm that she convinced herself she had to belong, and after a short passage of time- She did. 

Mid-2003: The birth of Eva Lean. Despite the initial sin that led to her fall being only blasphemy, Evangeline became gluttonous and lustful. Spending every night going from club to club, bar to bar, and partaking in every substance she could- Leaning into a persona based on how she came to find out history had remembered her adoptive mother. “Let them eat cake!” She’d cheer, relishing as the center of attention beneath the flashing lights, booming music, and between the swaying bodies of the crowd. The overindulgence numbed her from the memories of Heaven, from Adam and Sera’s betrayal, and from God’s bullshit. It didn’t matter anymore if she had a place to call her own, or a regular roof over her head– She’d just crash at whatever bar she ended up in by the end of the night. She shed herself of the identity she’d held onto for her whole living life and the centuries she spent in heaven– renaming herself Eva Lean after a particular purple concoction she enjoyed more than she should. 

2004: Selling her Soul. Eva didn’t realize that her reputation had begun to grow, word of a descendant of Marie Antionette going unhinged was hard to miss for someone like Valentino. He beckoned her to where he sat one evening in a club, and in her inebriated, curious state, she waltzed over to him. Plopping down on the couch beside him, waving the red smoke that wafted from his cigarette as he began to offer her an opportunity not fit for an angel. But she was a fallen angel and one without anything. Val ensured if she worked for him, and sold her soul to him– She’d have a roof over her head, protection during the yearly exterminations, and all the money she could want. Even if she had been sober, it was a choice with only one clear option. 

Pilot: Finding the Hazbin Hotel/Hearing of it. It had been over 10 years since Eva began working for Valentino. Her name, face, and body spread across the internet of hell in a way unfit for a woman of God. Although, the scars on her back were regularly edited out of everything she starred in. It wasn’t always glamorous or enjoyable, the work or living conditions but she didn’t even know what else she would do by this point. Valentino wasn’t always harsh with her, in fact, the overlord showed an almost soft side with the fallen angel behind closed doors. Careful to avoid causing anyone else to think he was playing favorites, of course. Eva enjoyed, no– relished in his attention. Even if she knew and believed it to be a facade, a ploy to get her clothes off and comfortable enough to keep being an obedient employee and pet. His chain was heavy on her throat and only felt lighter when he turned his attention to Angel Dust after his arrival to hell. She worked alongside Angel Dust, obviously not in the same films, but nonetheless. The two grew a friendship, relating to one another. Eventually, Eva would hear all about it from Valentino whenever Angel Dust moved out and started staying at the Hazbin Hotel. And she soon asked her friend what the hotel was all about. The concept intrigued her, although she didn’t believe in it being passed by heaven. She knew she herself was incapable of redemption particularly, due to already falling, but it would be interesting to offer assistance. She could get some space from Valentino when he was particularly aggressive or clingy for lack of a better word. Her soul’s owner had grown excessively attentive after Angel’s choice to leave, and it was becoming suffocating. Eva decided to visit this Hazbin hotel, greeting Charlie and expressing her interest in not being redeemed herself, but rather assisting sinners to take a more righteous path. Despite not being quite what Charlie had anticipated, or hoped to hear from the lamb, she was happy to accept help with the cause. 

During the Series: Eva moved into the Hazbin Hotel, resulting in a less-than-happy Valentino, gaining a similar reaction to when Angel Dust joined the Hotel- Though, much less severe in truth. (cont)

[j4bberj4y]

Intro to my rdr ocs (this is mainly for me)

Adam Lonall

Surprisingly soft spoken for an outlaw, until he gets his hands on a bottle. Adam was roped in by Sean MacGuire after the pair spent a night drinking together and Adam admitted he was on the run for killing a man. It was soon found out how quiet the man was.

Flint Colton

A widower, lost both his wife, Margret and newborn daughter during childbirth, flint became closed off, and returned to the life of crime he had lived before his marriage, not knowing what else to do. Crossing paths with the Van Der Linde gang soon after while attempting to rob a store, being convinced to join after it was successful. The man is very closed off, but was able to connect with Mary-Beth, seeing her as the daughter he never got to see grow up, though he would never let her know that.

Jemima White

Jemima white was born into a gang in 1880. the gang fell apart 17 years later. Jemima was taken in the Van der Lindes as she was a talented outlaw, with a knack for getting out of tricky situations. Ironically, she was caught by the law shortly before the Van der Linde gangs failed Sanit Denis bank robbery, sentenced to hanging in 1899.

Patience Robins

An orphan taken into the Van Der Linde gang, found in 1871 by Bessie Matthews, after being attacked by a man she had robbed, slashed across the face. Mrs Matthews became a sort of mother figure to her up until Bessie’s death. Patience still holds her memories dear. Always wears a cross necklace given to her by her late mother.

Anne Baker

A tough German woman, born in 1850. she emigrated to America with her husband, Thomas Baker. Thomas Baker died in 1884, succumbing to small pox, Anne was found by Susan Grimshaw and was taken in by the Van der Linde gang shortly afterwards, knowing very little english.

[fat-oc-battle]

MATCH FIVE, ROUND TWO

michael david "mick" adams (he, forgive the lonely) character & art by @mickadamz

Mick was born June 26, 1969 to Edith Adams, his biological father being Hank Adams. His step-father is his biological uncle George Adams, Hank’s younger brother (that whole triangle is a mess. dont worry about it.) Mick has four younger siblings - three with his parents, and one through Hank and his second partner. Mick has a son named Danny Harper with his ex-girlfriend Ronnie Harper in 1991, separating shortly after due to his sexuality. Mick remains very present and active in Danny’s life. He’s lived in West Virginia all his life. Though he has trouble managing his temper at times, Mick is a kind and sweet guy at heart and a quick thinker. He cares deeply about the people he loves, but also kinda wishes he had more REAL friends aside from his siblings and his ex-girlfriend.

mick's toyhou.se

VS.

bunny (he/it) character & art by @5eyed

bunny isnt so much a person as hes an entity. he manifests primarily around people in an altered state of consciousness - be it mania, derealization, psychosis, substance use, etc. it generally just hangs out and chills with whoever it manifests around, and while its mood, intentions and personality remain unreadable, it appears generally benevolent and of a fairly passive demeanor unless approached. some find its presence calming or reassuring. bunny can often be found sitting contemplatively and staring off into the distance. it cant speak, but it can make some mouth noises (grunting, sighing, huffing, etc are its main modes of communication). people he regularly manifests around may become friendly with him, in which case he will become virulently defensive of them. little is known about the rabbit typically hovering at the other end of its gas mask.

bunny's toyhou.se (eyestrain warning)

[mr-wonder]

“ Well good morning to you too, sweetheart! Do you need something, son? “

Yea I made a grandpa blog /silly

Mostly for my Susie blog, and some friends blog ( @housebound-hermit + @secretmailservice ! Hehe)

Will be very headcannon based!

My main is @clownazon <3

Adam Bernard Wonder is a man entering his late 80s, he used to be the towns mailman in the 50s and retired in 90s to 2000s!

He had his son James Wonder, who then went on to get married to Sylvia and have his two grand kids Susana (Susie) and William! He adores them to bits and pieces, and often looks over them as their guardian, though as of recent, he’s been trusting Marco Garcia too.

His wife passed away shortly after James was born, and he’s been hesitant to love again.. though he’s been getting a bit close to the towns Priest and the towns local Hermit /silly

Absolutely no terfs, pedos, racists — all that stuff. Gtfo ❤️ grandpas place is a safe place damnit

Have fun!

OCs are allowed (wonder is shipped with a friends OC after all) !

And yea🩷❤️ go wild!

[lumiereandcogsworth]

okay so I was thinking about babies and correct me if I’m wrong but I believe you said Adam was basically taken right from his mama’s arms after he was born, right?? do you have any thoughts on the first time she actually really got to hold him? or do you have any little headcanons about like. her talking to her belly, feeling adam move around, maybe playfully chastising him for keeping her awake (if he did move a lot, that is) just. any happy fluffy little moments with them during that period of time 🤧

OUGH !!!!!! one of my most tragic topics,,, yes let’s get into it. also, i know you asked for “headcanons” and “little moments” but instead i basically wrote… everything :) but i have a sneaking suspicion you won’t mind <3

So, I don’t think Renée actually realized she was pregnant for the first couple of months. Louis had, of course, been demanding a son since they consummated the marriage, but when she finally discovered that she was pregnant (her Lady’s Maid Anne actually figured it out first. Renée was quite sick and just thought it was some stomach illness, but Anne linked it to Renée no longer getting her period and connected the dots) — but when this discovery was made, she was conflicted. She was excited, to have a child. Her two older brothers were both already married with children, and she had loved spending time with her nieces and nephews before she left home. She loved kiddos!! She dreamed of having her own!! But of course… she could have never fathomed that THIS would be her motherhood circumstance. Louis wasn’t entirely awful to her just yet, but… he was never completely kind to her. His temper was far too quick, and she had learned that farrrr too quickly.

I have often thought about when Renée tells Louis that she is pregnant. Anne advises her to wait another month or so before informing him, since she knows that miscarriages happen more often earlier on, and Anne feared what Louis would do to Renée if she lost this child. (A very valid and unfortunately foreshadowing fear.)

Well, at any rate, Renée tells Louis that she is with child, and Louis is pleased! You can’t really tell, but he is. He brushes it (and her) off and dismisses her out of his study shortly after she tells him, but Renée can tell he is pleased because he leaves her alone for the following weeks, and is overall gentler with her throughout the pregnancy. (No, he doesn’t leave her alone entirely for all nine months. But he’s smart enough to know that he can’t be aggressive with her either. He wants this potential son to live !! And he’s a bit traumatized from the death of his last son (died the day after he was born. After his first wife Agnès died in childbirth. Isn’t it just so pleasant here in the pre-canon Beaumont household????))

The second and third trimesters carry on without much difficulty, thankfully. Everyone is kinder to her, even Louis’ stuffy council (who are typically very snobbish toward her) make sure to encircle her with their suddenly very friendly wives. (Suddenly she’s so important! Now that she’s not just HER but she’s carrying “true” royalty…) But besides that nonsense, Renée really enjoys watching her little one grow. The first time she feels him move is late one night when they had returned from a ball and Anne had just left her after undressing her. Renée is climbing into bed when she feels the strangest little squirm. She thinks perhaps it’s just her nightgown shifting as she gets in bed, and maybe digestion from the feast they’d had earlier, but once she gets all settled, laying still, she feels it again! The tiniest little wiggle, like a fish bravely attempting to brush up against the surface. She immediately smiles, lifting up her nightgown and placing her hands on her tummy. She whispers a sweet, “hello, my love,” as her heart beats a little faster. He doesn’t move anymore before she falls asleep, but her hands remain there all night, and after that, she’s always listening for him.

As he grew, he slowly began to wriggle around more and more. He was never terribly active — true to form, Adam was shy even in the womb — but that only made his kicks all the more precious. She definitely noticed that he was more likely to move when she sang to him, so she tried singing and humming to him as often as she could!!

She liked talking to him, as well. She often asked his opinion on things when she had to make some frivolous decision, like which roses were ready to be cut, or where the new decoration should go, or which color dress she should wear. Sometimes she’d ask him with Anne in the room, and Anne would assume the question was for her — to which Renée would giggle and turn, putting a hand on her growing bump and saying “Oh, sorry. I was talking to the little one.” And Anne would smile. From the very beginning, Renée was always happiest with this child of hers. Anne would do anything to capture that joy for her forever. She’d often teasingly reply, “Ah, apologies, Ma’am. Does the child have good taste?” and Renée would grin wider and say “Oh, yes. I depend on his advice!” and the ladies would laugh together.

The final weeks of the pregnancy were the worst, as one can imagine. It was August and very hot and everything was uncomfortable. Anne was faithful as ever and stayed by Renée, fanning her as much as she needed, trying to find all the thinnest and loosest-fitting dresses, and running cool baths whenever the queen had the time. The best moments were the very late evenings, when Renée couldn’t sleep a wink, so she’d sit out on her balcony in the cool summer air. Adam loved this, too, because he could hear his Mama humming softly. The vibrations echoed all around him; this was when he danced the most. He offered some rare big kicks, and it cut the humming short in favor of laughter. Renée would smile down at her big swollen belly in the moonlight and wrap her arms around him. “Are you happy, my little one?”

Renée was never completely sure if it was a boy or a girl, but I think deep down she knew she had succeeded in giving Louis the son he required. Or perhaps it was just desperate, wishful thinking. But regardless, she was right.

Renée went into labor on the evening of August 25th. The pains came on rather suddenly. She had just retired to her chambers for the evening, nearly ready to climb into bed and rest her achy bones, when the pains suddenly crashed upon her like a gruesome wave. Everything happened quickly after this. She yelled for Anne, but it wasn’t long at all before her water broke. Anne found her queen standing against her bedpost in a puddle of water, gripping the post to combat the pain. Her dutiful Lady’s Maid calmly sprang into action. The child was coming just when they were expecting him to — he had been due in late August from the beginning — so the midwives and doctors were ready. Anne gently guided Ren��e to her bed, holding her hand through the next painful contraction (before letting go, Renée whimpers to her faithful friend: “Please, stay with me when it happens.” Anne promised she would, and she kissed her queen’s forehead.) Anne then sprinted to the hospital wing to collect everyone.

Renée doesn’t remember much after this. The pains overwhelm her. She grips the sheets and cries out, she feels like she’s been sent straight to hell. She has flashes of memory that involve Anne returning, midwives and doctors surrounding her, more candles being lit, hurried voices muddled and buzzing over one another. Anne is applying a cold, wet rag to Renée’s forehead every so often, Renée feels as though she can barely breathe— the pain is unbearable. Somehow, despite feeling like she couldn’t hear anyone, she follows instructions to push, to wait, to breathe, to push again. It’s all very blurry and it feels utterly endless. Her palm is drenched in sweat but Anne won’t let go of it.

Finally, she feels the final relief, and she hears the unmistakable sound of a baby, wailing into the early morning of August 26th. She looks at the baby and laughs. She still can’t hear anything anyone is saying to her, for everything is centered around that baby. HER baby. HER SON. She suddenly recalls something her father said one day, when he was holding his grandson, her nephew. The baby was crying and crying, determined to be returned to his mother (who was unfortunately tending to his older sister for JUST a minute) and Renée’s father chuckled and said, “Well, thank the Lord, at least we know he was born with a healthy pair of lungs!” That’s all Renée thinks about as she fondly watches her son cry loudly into the still-dark morning while midwives cut his umbilical cord and clean his pink, wet little body. Thank the Lord, he was born with a healthy pair of lungs!

At some point between delivering the afterbirth and the child being carried away to be weighed and measured and cleaned even further, Renée’s fogginess goes from overwhelm to a complete overtaking. She turns to Anne and asks, “Where have they taken him? Where’s my baby?” But even when Anne assures her that he’s just over there, he’ll be in your arms in only a moment, you did so well, my dear, don’t worry, don’t worry — Renée’s confusion only increases. She suddenly becomes weaker, her vision going in and out of focus. That's when everyone notices how much she is still bleeding.

The queen falls unconscious and the doctors act as quickly as they can. Terror washes over Anne. The doctors bark at her to step away so they can examine the queen fully, so Anne reluctantly lets go of her hand. Her mind shifts focus and she hears the whimpers of the prince. He had been left in the bassinet, since all the medical team had turned their attention to the queen. Minutes old and already all alone. Anne quickly runs to him and scoops him out, holding him close and assuring him at once that his Mama would be just fine, have no fear, little one. The child, so desperate for his mother and certain that this WASN’T her, continues his unhappy crying. Anne rocks him and stands at a distance, watching in fear as they try to save their queen.

Miraculously, they succeeded. (But you already knew that.)

They managed to stop the bleeding, and though she remained asleep for a few more hours, Renée appeared to be stable again. Though, the doctors were in unfortunate agreement that it would most likely be very difficult, even fatal, for their queen to conceive and give birth to another child. This birth had caused so much damage, and the medical understanding and advancement was… only so far in 1718. The doctors were only partially correct, in this case. Renée was able to conceive many times over the coming years… but she miscarried just as many. Leaving her son an only child, and his father… increasingly dissatisfied.

But ah! She wakes up! Renée wakes in the late morning. She’s groggy, and very sore, but… surprisingly okay? She slowly sits herself up against the headboard, though it aches to do so. She looks around the room. It’s quiet and sunshine is pouring into every open window. Her brows furrow in perplexity as she wonders where the buzzing medical team went. Where Anne is. Where— HER BABY! Fresh, maternal instinct engulfs the young queen; she is suddenly a mother bear who is frantic to find her misplaced little cub. She rubs her face and looks around the room again, suddenly more awake than ever. “ANNE??” she cries. she wonders for just a moment if she dreamed everything, but then drops her hands to her belly. It’s still swollen, but squishy now. No, there can’t be a child in there anymore. And she’s sore, oh yes, and she aches everywhere. Especially down below. So all of that must truly have happened. But where—?

Anne comes into the room with a fresh bowl of water and a rag, clearly intent on freshening up the queen in her slumber, when she sees Renée is sitting up and awake and she very nearly drops the bowl onto the marble floor.

“Mistress!! I—You’re awake!!” Anne rushes the bowl and rag to the credenza and goes to the queen, taking her hand at once. “How do you feel, Your Majesty?”

“I…” she coughs. Her throat hurts and her mouth is dry. More proof that it was not a dream. Anne quickly pours a cup of water and offers it to her. After drinking it, she tries again. “My son?”

The words come out in a hoarse whisper, but Anne’s eyes light up all the same, thankful that Renée remembers that much; knows that she has, indeed, given birth to her firstborn son. She smiles and squeezes her hand, nodding. “He’s asleep, just over by the fire. Let me get him for you.”

As her Lady’s Maid rushes to her feet, Renée keeps hold of her hand just a moment and asks, “Is he alright?”

“He’s perfect,” she promises.

Renée smiles and lets go, watching as Anne hurries over to the bassinet and lifts out a little bundle. In the blink of an eye, he’s placed into her arms. Renée’s precious, perfect child. All at once, like a fountain, tears spring from Renée’s eyes. She sobs joyously, placing kiss after kiss upon the child’s scrunched up, little face. He whines, confused by the sudden disturbance, and she laughs; even the noises he makes are perfect. “I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps whispering. She leans back against the headboard, settling lower into the pillows, and she shifts him up onto her chest, so his tiny ear is pressed against her thumping heart. It is then that his whining ceases; he knows this sound better than anyone. That’s his most beloved lullaby. He falls back asleep, his little hand gripping the ruffled neckline of her nightgown, his breathing rhythmic and heavy. His healthy pair of lungs.

Renée rests her head back and closes her eyes, smiling, feeling complete and utter bliss for the first time since she moved to this wretched castle. Anne has tears slipping down her own cheeks. She knows, too well, that this bliss won’t last. She knows there’s still horror to come, for she knows what her king is capable of, and she knows that wet nurses and nannies are already on standby to raise this child without his mother’s involvement. But she says none of this, of course. She smiles upon her queen, her friend, and she shares in the joy of welcoming her precious baby into the world.

The queen turns and opens her eyes, meeting her maid’s smile. “Thank you for staying with me,” she whispers.

Anne nods, heart aching. “Always, my queen.”

[rainbowchewynuggets]

TMA Encore - Epilogue

Georgie: The Wilkinson House–also known as the Floating House or Trespasser House–was built in 1896 in Rodell, Kentucky, USA. Two brothers, Joseph and Mathias Wilkinson, inherited their late father’s coveted plot of land. Unwilling to reach an agreement over the use of the land, the brothers descended into an increasingly ugly feud. Joseph built a house “overnight” to stake his claim, using materials bought at short-sale auctions in a nearby town. Said town was suffering from air and water pollution from newly built factories surrounding the steps of the Appalachian Mountains where it lay. The town as it was slowly dismantled and moved out, and the area has since been named Smog, Kentucky. Fun fact: three of these factories belonged to Wilkinson Sr. It is unclear whether they were included in the will.

Georgie: Joseph contracted tetanus while finishing the house and died soon after. Mathias tried to have the house torn down, but apparently had a change of heart and moved it to the same lot as his own home. His body was found with a broken neck in the attic by a neighbor a few days later.

Georgie: The house was made into a tourist attraction the following year, on account of the shocking tale behind it as well as its eerie creeks and slamming doors–most likely due to the rushed craftsmanship. The story went that Joseph’s ghost had possessed his brother and made him move the house, then killed him in revenge. The attraction was moderately popular up until the Great Depression. It never officially closed, despite additional unexplained deaths on the property and a growing negative reputation. The body count only drew in a steady stream of onlookers, according to tour records.

Georgie: It wasn’t until the spring of 2017 that things began to change. On April 18th, the house was observed to have disappeared from the lot without a trace.

Georgie: Five months later, a house of identical description allegedly appeared on a small island in the Pacific Northwest. A retired entrepreneur reported to local police that it had been placed illegally, as she had bought the island privately several weeks before. Police were ready to dismiss the complaint when they arrived and found nothing. She was adamant that the intrusion had occurred and went on record with a vivid argument she had had with one of the two occupants, who she says had been reading a book written in Spanish on the porch. The other was repairing part of the railing and shot her dirty looks. The complaint was sustained after fresh scratches and paint chips were found in the soil, but the case was otherwise shelved.

Georgie: Surprisingly, the pair of men don’t appear to be the Wilkinsons. The brothers were both Kentucky-born and -bred, white, average height, muscular, and almost hairless. The house’s new occupants were “British-sounding”. One was very thin and short and appeared to be of Indian or Middle-Eastern descent, with silver hair. The other was tall, heavy-set, and white with brown hair.

Georgie: Similar reports would crop up in North, Central, and South America over the next few years and get passed around on Tumblr, Twitter, and Reddit. The house would almost always appear in secluded areas that were off-limits to the public and disappear itself shortly after being found. It was always inhabited by the same two men, with the added consensus that they were married.

Georgie: They were rarely spotted in nearby towns and never spoke with anyone enough for their names to become known. When they were interacted with, they were generally polite--if a little tired or distracted. Otherwise, they were found to be wandering the area around their house together, mending the exterior, reading, or reciting aloud. Even the most invasive person couldn’t attempt to film or approach the house without suffering a migraine or severe paranoia before losing consciousness. The house would be gone when they woke up, and their recording device rendered unusable. But written descriptions match a file photo of the original Wilkinson house. Debate sprung up over whether the two were ghosts, aliens, witches, a made up meme that keeps coming into fashion, or two eccentric recluses who happened to be living in a haunted house and deserved to be left alone.

Georgie: Sightings became more sparse toward 2023. When the couple were encountered, they never responded when spoken to. A reddit user in Mongolia supposedly used their home telescope to take photos through the house’s windows where it sat in a glen behind their apartment. The two men sat still or paced in separate rooms for a few hours. They stopped and came together to talk once. The redditor recorded the conversation through lip reading and concluded that they were arguing in English about “where it was going” or “what we are being”. Their accuracy is disputed. The occupants then began pulling books and papers off of the shelves in every room. The user stepped away for a few minutes and came back to find that all the windows were greyed out. They were unsure if they were covered in smoke or paper. The house stayed for a week in that state before disappearing. This account used to be widely discredited, as it didn’t fit the behavior profile at the time and the photos taken are unreadable. More radical accounts are believed to exist going backward, but have suffered from link decay and regional internet suppression.

Georgie: On May 8th of 2024, an elderly woman living next to a military base in New Mexico told her connected family that there had been a security threat that morning, complete with sirens and troops rushing out with rifles and buggies. Her husband–who works as a janitor there–only alluded to “some kind of prank with an old empty house”. Their grandchildren relayed the story to their mutuals on tumblr, stirring attention in the States again.

Georgie: Following reports of the Floating House usually included some description of a visit by a pair of American “secret service” agents or men in military garb with weapons. The usual couple either answer the door or refuse to come out, and the house is gone within minutes. Similar accounts were made by users in China, Chile, Australia, and Turkiye, but were discounted as the agents were always said to be American. The circumstances of each encounter continued to escalate until it was claimed by a cyclist in Mayak, Russia that there was some kind of standoff between the two sides, followed by a “nuclear” explosion that left nothing behind but the house. The area appeared untouched the next day, but had apparently become irradiated due to previously unaccounted-for material in the soil that had been agitated by construction efforts. A few people were found dead in the area. The cyclist himself had to be treated for burns.

Georgie: From here, it gets a little muddy. Despite a renewed surge in popularity for the Floating House, agreed-upon sightings are very rare for the next two years. It only appears in very sparsely populated areas along the north and south poles and is even faster to disappear. A researcher in Antarctica thought she saw the outline of a roof on the horizon as the sun rose after six months of night, but it was gone a few seconds later. She managed to get a quick drawing of the shape, which will be included in the image links in the description. There are often claims of similar encounters to the American secret agent incident. Sometimes it’s cultists. Sometimes it’s businessmen. Or “werewolves”. Sometimes it’s members of a particular subgroup that also follows the sightings. It all ends the same, with the house as the only thing standing when the dust has cleared. The house’s legend has become so routine, that many accounts are ignored out of hand and highly disputed. Though, it is notable that the inhabitants haven’t been a visible part of the story in several months.

Georgie: Phew. Now, to wrap up our deep-dive on the Floating House, we’re going to hear a first-hand account from just last year.

Napâttuk: Okay. Um, hello. My name is Napâttuk Waska. I saw the house in the woods near my hometown–south of Salluit, Quebec, basically. Almost at the tip. I’m not sure exactly how long it had been there by the time I found it. I practically lived in those woods from birth, but I’d been away at university in Montreal with my partner, Tootega.

Napâttuk: I kind of have to tell you about all that for this to make sense. She had some friends there who were willing to let us stay with them. And it was… it was really bad. Not the friends. I’d just never lived in a big city before, and I wasn’t expecting all the trash and noise and giant ugly buildings. And then, there was a really big forest fire nearby a little while after we got there. We didn’t end up having to evacuate, but smoke came in on the wind for two weeks. I was covered in ash and my eyes hurt by the time I got to class every day. The way the sun came through the smoke made everything look orange and menacing. I tried my best to stick it out because Tega was handling it alright. But I just found myself sitting inside all the time, watching people talk on the news about the new giant ugly buildings they were going to put in the place where the trees were burning down. I had to make myself not freak out every time there was a little change in how the air smelled for the rest of the semester.

Napâttuk: Anyway. By the time we finally went back home after finals, I was desperate to feel normal again. This was December, and it hadn’t really snowed yet–which is very odd. But the weather said snow was coming, so I tried not to let it bother me. I decided to go hiking in a spot I knew about ten miles from town. It’s a bowl surrounded by hills, so it’s hard to get lost. I didn’t make Tega go with me. She hates hiking. But it was fine. It was just like I remembered. I felt great.

Napâttuk: And that’s when I saw it. Just–this house sitting in the middle of the forest. First of all, this is the Low Arctic. We don’t even have a ton of forests. It could have been put anywhere else. Second, this is my forest. I mean, it’s not. But. It was like someone had just dumped the house there and knocked over a bunch of trees, and then left. There were skid marks on the ground, like it had been dragged. It even looked like trash. It’s exactly the same as the picture you showed me, but the windows and roof had been covered up with metal. Most of the wood I could see had bullet holes in it. The paint was almost gone, and the slats were discolored and caked in brown and yellow stuff. Like some kind of glue. The weirdest thing was that it looked… bloated. Have you ever seen wood that’s been left in the water too long, and it gets swollen and bent? It was like that, but something had been pushing at it from the inside at the same time. I could hear it creaking and groaning under its own weight. The whole thing was slanted away from the ruts in the ground, which was also strange. I was too mad to really think about that at the time.

Napâttuk: It reminded me of some of the scary neighborhoods around the university, so I was nervous about getting the attention of anyone inside. But I made myself get over it and marched up to the door. I heard rustling when I knocked, so I knew someone was in there. I–I don’t know what was wrong with me. I tried opening the door. It barely moved, like there was something heavy barricading the other side. I kept pushing on it, and it suddenly swung inward.

Napâttuk: …

Napâttuk: The… the inside was so dark, I didn’t see anything. But I knew that I was staring down into a chasm. I swear. The vertigo almost made me collapse. I jerked backward to avoid losing my balance and took a tumble down the steps of the porch. I was okay, but I still felt myself slipping. I had to cling to the ground to keep from falling into the house. There was nothing to grab onto, and I kept sliding back on the pine needles and loose soil. I slowly crawled my way back into the trees until I could stand. Then, I ran until I was back at my car.

Napâttuk: I told Tega about it, and she said it sounded like the Floating House stuff she’d read about. I had no idea. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. She’s much more online than I am. She really likes SCP and things like that. I’m not sure she fully believed me about the falling part, but she and some friends agreed to go back with me. I didn’t want to go too near it again. I just wanted it… reported, I guess.

Napâttuk: The thing is, we couldn’t even find the place where it was. It’s not a huge area. It made Tega more excited, but our friends were pretty annoyed to be dragged into the freezing woods for nothing. I was mortified. I knew where it was, we must have just been circling around it. I cut through another way, and when I turned around, Tega and the others were gone. I kept looking, until I saw that the sun was going down. They weren’t picking up their phones, they didn’t hear me calling them. I decided to just leave and see if they were waiting for me by the car. But then, I couldn’t find the treeline. The trees just went on and on and on. It got hot. I was hot even after I took off my parka. And then, I smelled smoke. It hung in the air all around me and got thicker until I couldn’t see. Ash came off of me in sheets as I waded through it like gritty snow. I couldn’t tell which way the bowl went anymore. I eventually felt something through the ash, but it was hard and flat like concrete. It hurt to walk on. I don’t know, it sounds crazy. I was tired and deprived of oxygen. I don’t remember getting to the road, but I woke up in the medical center in town. One of my neighbors had found me on their way home.

Napâttuk: Tega and the others had gone home without me, apparently? I asked them about what happened, but they wouldn’t talk about it. They keep saying they didn’t find the house, but I think they’re lying. They did say they saw the fire–there really was one. Nobody knows why. Heavy snowfall put it out before it did any real damage. It wasn’t where the house was, and there hasn’t been any word about people finding it. Nothing’s really happened since then, but I had to move to Alberta to get away from the smell of smoke.

Georgie: I see. Do Tega and your friends still live there?

Napâttuk: I’m not sure. They’re mostly her friends, and she and I don’t really talk anymore. The last couple times that we did, she was really agitated about something. I got the sense that we were losing touch because she was busy trying to deal with it. A few months ago, my mom told me she had gotten in trouble for stalking this guy who lived out by the water and had his lights off all the time. Only came out at night. Never had a flashlight. Walked with a cane. I just assumed he was a little blind and sunburned easily. He was always super friendly and chill. But I asked Tega about it, and she said he’d been accused of kidnapping when he lived in Sweden?? Like, kidnapped a whole lot of people??? What????? It’s messed up if it’s true, but then Tega got arrested trying to break into his house with an axe. I just–I can’t believe any of this is happening.

Napâttuk: A while ago, I dove into the Floating House forums to try to make sense of it. I made a bunch of posts about what happened, and people asked all kinds of questions. I was so relieved. I felt like I could actually talk to someone about it. I even put up the coordinates of where I’d seen the house. But lately, my mom says there’s been a lot more tourism at home, and I can’t help wondering if that has something to do with me. I don’t think you can even get to the bowl anymore. The road was closed after some kind of accident. She says people still park up there, though. I… I haven’t thought about going back there before, but… do you think I should?

Georgie: Wh–I–why do you ask?

Napâttuk: You’re the professional. I’m the one who opened it, so maybe I should close it.

Georgie: … I don’t know.

Napâttuk: That’s okay. Sorry… For all I know, it’s not even there anymore. Did you have any other questions?

Georgie: I did see that you took down the locations you’d posted.

Napâttuk: Yeah, it just. It made me nervous. But somebody else probably has them saved and put up somewhere.

Georgie: Hmm. You know, This kind of thing happens all the time. It blows over when something else interesting comes along. And honestly, a lot of these “sightings” are on pretty shaky ground. I wouldn’t worry.

Napâttuk: Right. You’re right.

Georgie: Okay, well, I think that’s about it. Thank you very much for coming on.

Napâttuk: Uh, yeah. No problem. Bye.

————

Prev

First

Whoa. Wow. I can’t believe it. That’s it. That’s the end.

I’ve had this fic slowly taking up more and more space in my head since 2020. And now, it’s fully out there! Spiraling off into the internet like the big crazy snake that it is.

I know the process was rocky, but I’m really glad I stuck it out all the way. I learned a whole lot, and I actually feel more sure that making comics is what I want to do than ever (while working out a more sustainable way to do it, of course).

And I’m really grateful to you, if you’ve read the entire thing or just a page. All the comments and reblogs and kind words have been really nice to hear and helped me keep going. Seriously, thank you.

Maybe have a look at my other stuff, if you’re so inclined.

Hoo... anyway.

I need a nap.

Bye. <3

Index

[corvidaeconundrum]

I am illiterate in the world of Warrior Cats, but I am very literate when it comes to felines in general

Even if Morningstar abandoned or had Nobody abandon kitty Adam somewhere (I forgot his cat name, I'm sorry), he could have still groomed (licked) him a bit shortly after he was born/created, because "socializing" is how many animals, including wild felines, pass immunity germs and their own scent to their cubs, to help them stay healthy and boost brain activity in the first few weeks

Not exactly a "tasty" thing, but a very useful thing

It would be interesting if it never had the chance to, what with the inherent hustle and bustle of needing to both create a living breathing kit outside of the Dark Forest, and be able to plant it in a queens nest.

This time in between, from his creation to his impromptu adoption, where he never got this care, could explain plenty of Appletufts problems later down the road.

He of course was taken care of by the clan, but its sad to think about how just being tossed from cat hell to a random she-cat within the first 73 hours of being born would fuck Applekit up.

[nono-uwu]

The boy!! Whooo we all cheered for the silly little guy

Loree utc :3

Homura was born into a loving family. He was always a little different (aka autisitc) but his family still loved him and he loved them. He had difficulties fitting in with his peers at school but that didn't bother him as at the end of the day he would return to his family. How nice :)

Then december 25th 2012 happens and they all die-

So as the sole <13 year old in his family, he survives the inital apocalypse but then has to evade vampire capture. How? He shuts himself in a closet with a knife and prays to whatever god there is that they don't find him.

Luck is on his side as two days later, Yua finds him. A very # dramatic scene play out where he lunges at her with the knife, she catches his hand and goes to pat his head like "it's okay kid you're safe". Our boy gets pseudo adopted by Yua and she takes him to JIDA headquarters. He bravley signs up to training to become a soldier and a few years pass.

Once he gets his very own demonic weapon, he chooses a gun(I think it's a rifle? but idfk it just looks cool). His demon is surprisingly polite, a young silver haired girl. Her only condition on lending him all her power is that he sometimes gives her full contol over his body, during which he's unconscious.

When Yua gets back from her solo mission, very noticeably unharmed he jumps to her defense. Thanks to his superb bargaining skills he gets Yua a less harsh punshment and continuously jumps to her defense afterwards.

As for his army career... it's a little weird. He somehow has incredible luck. He returns mostly unharmed from even the most dangerous missions, even when his squadmates bite the dust or get heavily injured. Homura himself has no real idea how he always survives (probably thanks to his demon) whoch has netted him an unfavorable reputation amongst his fellow soldiers. Due to this he's usually delegated to supplying and protecting human settlement.

Whenever Yua would come back from her adventures, he'd eagerly listen to what she's been up to. After each time, the prospect of he himself visiting those vampires becomes more and more enticing. He already has a hard time getting along with his fellow soldiers and his luck would probably save him from death. Besides, Yua speaks highly of them, so they can't be that bad.

One day he mentiones this to Yua who, understandably, isn't too excited about the idea. She may get a free pass but Homura? He's just another human soldier to the vampires.

To test the waters, Yua just takes Homura to meet with Machigai since he'd be the most understanding. Machigai is just like "bro idfk go ask them yourself" but that ordeal is cut short by a wandering Chess appearing out of nowhere (she was bored and decided to follow Machigai even though he specifically told her, Horn and Crowley that he'd like to go alone lol). A very panicked explanation by Yua later and Chess is fully on board with getting another human friend (if she gets to drink some of his blood that is >:3). Shortly after, Nagoya city hall now has two special human visitors who regularly bring intel and snacks!

Ofc this gets him into some hot water when others notice his prolonged absences and his adamant defense of Yua, who is already under suspicion of being a 'traitor to humanity', but he doesn't care. (Will probably elaborate on this sometime)

[first-daughter-edith]

Edith OC!

I did my best to draw, but let’s pretend the drawing is good.

Lore!

Edith is the daughter of Eve, and either Lucifer or Adam. Nobody knows when Edith was born as it was shortly after Adam left Eve, and Eve had a threesome with Lucifer. Edith went to Hell, like her mother, and was poisoned. She has mixed feelings about both her fathers, and runs a hair salon in Hell. She is very close to her mother. She sold her soul in order to protect her mother, but has not told her yet.

Boundaries.

Minors DNI.

I will not roleplay smut, and I am picky about triggering things.

Fun Facts

She is an INFJ and a type 1w2.

Her birthday is June 6th (Gemini).

Her favorite food is cotton candy.

My Other Roleplay Blogs

Angel Dust: @spiderdemonangel

Clara: @weapons-bitch-clara

Emily: @emily-the-fallen

Velvette: @fashion-bitch-velvette

Main Blog: @shinyruby