#plumber gothic

[plutoniumpossum]

Being a Plumber on a Election Year Gothic

(USA edition)

You tell a old man how soon he should have hot water, now that you've set the temperature on his new water heater. He replies by telling you unprompted that the supreme court is all catholic and is ruining everything. You wonder if the words "between 30 to 45 minutes" is secretly an activation code for something.

You had a late call for a water leak, its 10:30pm but you got it fixed. You hand the woman her invoice and tell her the total of the Bill. Its now 11:20pm and you've been told every possible way how the Earth is screwed due to global warming, pollution, politics (American), and how there's no hope for the future. The invoice is still unsigned and unpaid. You hope the skunk that's been wondering up the street towards the two of you doesn't get any closer.

You've been working on a broken sewer line under the house, when you crawl out from under it to give an update you're asked what you think about so-and-so running and how disgusting is that? You think that you've been crawling through sewage and you now have insulation in your hair.

The dorm kitchen sink is clogged and there's enough Drain-o in the line to start a meth lab. "Have you ever been sexually harassed while at work? That's way we have to vote Democratic, they care about women's rights." By the end of the job they've repeated the question so many times you begin to wonder if you're about to be.

You knock on the door and introduce yourself. Your customer was watching the news before they answered the door. They now want to talk about it and their political opinions before they remember the plumbing problem they called you for in the first place. You wish you had clocked out and taken lunch before this job.

You're doing a normal plumbing job at a normal house. The neighbor a few houses down has a display covering the front yard full of flags for both political parties, their candidates, and a few other opposing factions thrown in. You wonder what kind of toilet they have.

Your customer is making small talk with you as you walk through the door. They ask you what your political party alignment is. You wish you had fell through that rotten board on the porch and broken your leg.

[exploresmallworlds]

Foreclosure Pt IV

Somewhere between the initial inspection and the second official inspection and now there was a series of things that started to go wrong to make them think deeply how stupid it was to pursue this dream. Between servicing the loan, the price of materials and the eventual understanding that this was a bigger project that even anticipated weighed heavily. First there was a leaky tap. Mallory had…

[pianokantzart]

Hi Piano! I love your posts and your comics! I loved the idea of ​​making a Luigi's mansion film, I even posted some ideas, do you have ideas for a Luigi mansion film?

Thank you! I have touched upon the idea a bit, with @keakruiser adding some thoughts of their own. But I do have more...

Mario and Luigi start off the movie having money issues despite the booming business. Maybe they accidentally caused some sort of serious damage that they need to pay for? Maybe there's a family emergency? Or maybe they've been too generous with free plumbing repairs to the point that the bills are catching up with them. Either way, I want all the gold and cash that Luigi vacuums up to have some sort of serious significance.

Luigi tries to talk to his father and uncles about the plumbing business at Sunday dinner, but they all speak over him in favor of talking to Mario. Mario tries to nudge the conversation in Luigi's direction, but Luigi eventually gives up and goes to the kitchen to help his mother with dishes. There he has a little heart to heart with his mom, similar to this scrapped scene from the SMB Movie concept art, but with Luigi instead of Mario:

Please please please make The Dark Moon an element! Establish that it isn't just Mario's life on the line, but an entire world at risk of being swarmed by angry ghosts under King Boo's control.

And of course we need to have Polterpup! Let's say that "animals are the among the few spirits who don't need to be soothed by the dark moon," but unfortunately that matters very little to Luigi, who has an established fear of dogs. So we go into why! Maybe he got attacked by a dog as a young child and needed Mario to save him? This would feed into both Luigi's sense of helplessness, and guilt about being so frightened while his brother is so brave and selfless.

As Luigi gets more victories under his belt, and as Polterpup follows him around and helps out, they start to form a bond. Eventually we get a Puss In Boots 2 esque scene where Luigi has an anxiety attack after loosing radio contact with E. Gadd, before Polterpup floats over and helps calm him down enough to keep moving.

Have Luigi's semi-canon mechanical prowess come into play! At some point, midway through a particularly grueling fight, the poltergust gets damaged. Between running for his life, hiding in various locations, and knocking things over to buy himself time, Luigi steadily fixes the damage enough to pull through the fight.

Luigi and Elvin Gadd bond over being two (vaguely autistic-coded) weirdos. Luigi is surprised that Elvin Gadd doesn't mind trusting him with his equipment, that he doesn't get annoyed with his fear, and doesn't mind walking him through every tiny step. Meanwhile Elvin Gadd is like "Patient with you??? I love walking you through things step by step! You're one of the few people who'll actually listen to my ramblings! And yeah, you're clearly scared, but you've stayed! That's way more than most."

I imagine the people trapped in paintings are able to speak and move around, but King Boo can set their painting to a sort of "stagnant mode" if the captive gets too rowdy or mouthy. Mario's picture is mostly kept in stagnant mode for obvious reasons.

King Boo's confidence visibly wavers the further along Luigi gets. King Boo goes from "Why should I be worried? E. Gadd's a decrepit fool and his new 'apprentice' is a sniveling coward!" to "Okay so Luigi can use the poltergust... he's no match for my forces!" to "What is wrong with all of you!? Why can't you catch a simple plumber!?" to "I'm going to tear this man's soul apart with my teeth!"

Bowser was heavy metal, so I want King Boo to be operatic with a Gothic/Baroque ballroom aesthetic. Of course we've got to have orchestral version of the Luigi's Mansion theme, but I also want a cinematic revamp of the SMBW "Night At Boo's Opera" song.

You know how Luigi broke down laughing and sobbing when he finally saved Mario in the original Luigi's Mansion? That. I want that, with an extra dose of Mario hugging Luigi and reassuring him that he's alright.

[geraldthellama]

Bowuigi Corpse Bride AU Lore Post

So I said I would probably make this and while I thought about making this into a fanfic and making ya'll read that, I decided that I need to commit to the other three (two and a half?) Mario fanfic ideas I have. So if anyone wants to make a full blown fic or whatever with this AU, feel free (but tag me ofc because I've got to see it).

(This will not be short, just a quick warning that this is a commitment).

This AU is very loosely based off the actual movie. Instead of them being in the underworld, they're just in a haunted house that Boo lost to Bowser in a game of poker, and instead of being a corpse (as the name suggests), Luigi is just a slightly annoying boo. Him and Polterpup are the only ones that inhabit the mansion, and, with the house completely abandoned, it's probably going to stay that way.

In this world, ghosts only stay after some massive traumatic death. Problem is, Luigi has no recollection of how he died, he just knows he hit his head and a little while later awoke, a ghost that's unable to be seen, heard, and is completely alone as a newly-deceased. Aside from the yipping ghost dog at his feet (Luigi has always been afraid of both ghosts and dogs).

As a ghost, Luigi originally spawns (spawns?) into this world with little ghostly abilities. Living beings can't see or hear him and he doesn't have the power to manipulate objects or people in any way. He is essentially a specter, watching the lives of other people for years until, eventually, it's abandoned, and the Peasley family mansion (one of many, that is) is gambled away to King Boo.

But, King Boos already got his own slew of creepy haunted mansions, and, frankly, this one is haunted by a ghost he can't stand. A ghost that hasn't been able to speak to someone for around a decade. A chatty ghost that hasn't been able to speak to someone for over a decade. He's not exactly torn up about parting with it.

Bowser, the poor thing, is on attempt...

Attempt... 2 hundred... something.

(at least 4 proposals a year, for around 20 years... that's...)

Let's just say, Peach does and has not wanted Bowser for a long ass time, and it really doesn't help his self esteem that he's still being thwarted by a plumber that's old enough to be his dad and uses a cane. He really can't understand what Peach sees in him, especially considering she still looks like a youthful 20/30-something into her 60s. Frankly, it's unfair. He's got money, kids (some really awesome ones too), power, looks (he thinks so at least), and isn't 3 pudding cups away from dementia.

What he hasn't got, until right now at least, is an awesome mansion, specially built for human(oid) creatures. Maybe she just didn't like gothic castle architecture? Maybe, as Boo suggests, he just has to get her scared enough to fall into his arms for safety. He's got this all planned out.

Boo did not specify that the "ghostly inhabitants" of this mansion were a hyperactive ghost dog and naive plumber. He didn't think it was important information at the time.

So, when Bowser is plotting and practice-proposes (does he really need more practice?) to the striking blue eyes of a, surprisingly, human painting, the last thing he expects is to be met with a ghoulish grin.

Barely ghoulish, because, god, the thing is bright. The smile and the bio-(bio?)-luminescent energy it's attached to. For a ghost who's wearing bloodied bandages and has been dead for 30 lonely years, he's surprisingly optimistic.

"Really?! And you're not even a boo!" :D

He's very optimistic, in fact, because he's willing to believe that this complete stranger might just be his ticket out of this wall-papered purgatory. He died meeting up with his forbidden love, after all, so it must be a sign. He does not hesitate to shove that ring on his finger, even if his new fiance looks hesitant (he might be naive enough to go with it, but he's not blind). He's convinced the two will make it work.

Luigi is... very tired of looking at the same things everyday. Now, he can attach to his new fiance, who's only slightly hesitant to engage with him, (and is not bad looking at all, in Luigi's opinion). Together, the two can actually have a life together. Luigi was only 25 when he died, and he was far too shy then to do any adventuring. The most rebellious thing the man had ever done was sneak out.

Man, look where that ended him.

For Luigi, this is his opportunity to live the life he wasted was robbed of.

And the guys got kids! How awesome is that?

Bowser is not liking the new pets at his side. One never stops yipping and yapping and one is a dog. Luigi is... fine. From a distance. The problem is that they physically can't get any. As long as Luigi is attached to him, consider them hand cuffed. This stupid, green boo is crimping his style, and any game he had with Peach is virtually ruined when he's got his "fiance" clinging to his side like he's the best thing since breathing air.

At least Luigi appreciates his kids. The ghost obviously has some taste (of course he does, he chose him for pete's sake), and Junior and the rest seem to like the ghoul enough... Even if Junior isn't completely sure that Luigi is a ghoul. Both Luigi and Junior agree that boos are scary.

Maybe, after some hard self-reflection (with Luigi close and present, of course), and some growing emotional intimacy and openness, Bowser begins to kind of, perhaps tolerate Luigi. Just a little. Just enough to find his stupid quirks endearing and just enough to start to think that maybe he's always been too good for Peach, anyway. Maybe he should be with someone who appreciates him and loves his family. It's not like her and Mario had ever had kids in their relationship, and her not wanting kids is kind of a deal breaker.

Bowser's newfound attention on Luigi is driving everyone else nuts, though. Boos barely seen the man since his unfortunate run in with the green leach and no one else at their poker table is any good. At this rate, Boos not even satisfied winning Peasley's riches off him anymore. Occasionally, a guy just wants to lose, y'know? Boo hates only one thing more than Peasley whining about the consequences of his gambling addiction, and that's boredom. He misses when the Koopa King spent all his time plotting against the old-ass plumber. At least then he showed his face at their meetings.

And when Boo finally brings up his grievances, because he deserves to rant, Peasley seems... nervous. Boo loves nervousness.

"There's a... human boo... in the mansion I gave you..?"

"One, you didn't give it to me, you lost, fair and square. Two, yeah, and he's just about the chattiest thing I've ever met. All dressed up in a white suit, the pretentious-"

At that, Peasley turns about as pale as a ghost. Well, if that were possible, considering he's a legume. Suddenly, he's got some important things he has to do somewhere else.

This poker table is looking weak.

When Peasley asks Bowser to meet at the mansion, Bowser warns he can't come alone. It's a stretch to get the green ghost to go back with him, and as much as Bowser wants to tell him "you're coming with me, whether you like it or not", he can't bring himself to say it. Instead, he convinces Luigi that it's a quick stay. Essentially, a welfare visit on the old house and a quick meeting with an old friend. Luigi's narrowly convinced.

Stepping back onto that porch brings back a lot of old memories for the human. Few of them anything good in retrospect.

But he does want to see his painting again. He always did cherish that painting. He's sure Bowser will too, right?

Is that painting a good memory for Bowser? He wonders.

It was all those years ago that a young Peasley gifted him that painting. Like him, he had been optimistic and in love. Even if his rich, snobby parents weren't a fan of the human, they had an entire life ahead of them. Peasley had made him a beautiful painting. It was the one part of the house Luigi felt was his. A good memory.

He never expected to be greeted by the same image he had all those years ago. Peasley, now older, stood in front of the painting. His face now wasn't proud or love-struck or whatever expression he had had then (Luigi can barely remember Peasley's face until just now), he looked somber. It was a rare occasion that Luigi wasn't green, and his teal glow seemed to throw Bowser off.

And divert Peasley's attention away from the miserable painting and over to the ghost, who was nervously twiddling his thumbs with a sympathetic look in his eyes.

It's not long before Bowser realizes that this meeting was never about him, and he feels more awkward than anything else...

Except that Polterpup has been on edge since the moment he saw the bean (now) king. Has he ever seen the dog not wag it's tail at someone?

Immediately, the older man apologizes. Things were never meant to end up how they did. He tried his best to help when he could.

Luigi's not angry, how could he be? Luigi's fall was an accident.

Peasley says he didn't know Luigi had stuck around, and if he had, he thinks he would have done things differently. He would have at least had the place cleaned instead of just letting it rot.

(So Peasley abandon the mansion? The perfectly good mansion for no reason, leaving Luigi alone.)

And, of course, Peasley's sorry for not telling Mario or his parents about what happened to him.

(HUH?)

He insisted that he waited for hours with Luigi, hoping he'd recover with enough gauze. The man told him it was a lost cause. If he could have saved him, he would have.

Hours?

"I was unconscious for hours?"

It came out as barely a whisper.

"I stayed almost the entire night. As long as I could."

Bowser didn't know boos could turn so many colors, especially that quickly. Bowser didn't think Luigi even had it in him to be anything less than smiley, especially completely enraged.

Luigi had never been more angry in his life (death).

Even Peasley's insistence that "You don't understand what they'd have done to me if they'd known I went against their wishes!" fell on deaf ears.

When Luigi's aura finally finished raving, Peasley had backed away from the now red ghost. Again, Luigi recognized the position they were in;

One of them backing up, away from the painting and towards the basement stairs. How could Peasley forget that door never closed all the way? It had only been the exact thing that killed Luigi 30 years ago. The exact thing that, of course, Peasley hadn't fixed.

Luigi swears he didn't push him, even in that state. Bowser believes him, only because the still angry and unaware Luigi yelled angrily down the stairs: "You better not die here, because I'll make your death hell!"

If they both hadn't just watched Peasley fucking die, Bowser would have kinda been into it.

It took Luigi a second to realize that even if his own fall had been an unlucky hit, Peasley wasn't 25 anymore. And he wasn't responding. His red hue didn't last long, especially when Polterpup no longer seems threatened (and Bowser notices that the bean king no longer seems to be breathing).

"What did I do?"

Bowser suggests fleeing the crime scene, which normally isn't his move, but he'd rather not be tied to the murder of a fellow royal. Luigi shakes his head.

This is his fault. And as angry as he still is at Peasley, he can't flee what he's done. Not in a right conscience. Not like what Peasley did to him. Luigi suffered enough sitting in that mansion alone for 30 years, and, as much as revenge tastes sweet, a small part of him still cares. Had he lived, Peasley and him would have had a life after all.

But he hadn't lived, did he.

Bowser can't remember a time ever seeing Luigi's color look quite as dull as it did then.

Playing with his engagement ring, Luigi thinks back on the part of the man he loved. Peasley never did buy him the ring, like he had hoped. Luigi remembers getting himself all excited over the possibility of a scenic proposal as they walked through the flower garden of the mansion. He had gifted him a painting. Which was almost as good.

He couldn't even count how many times he had stood and looked at that painting, thinking:

Was it worth it?

An apprehensive smile comes onto his face. A nostalgic smile. A somber one.

Doesn't really matter, does it? He'd never know if it was worth it in the end. This was how it ended up. Luigi had always believed that fate is what had brought him and Peasley together, considering everything else had lined them up for failure. Fate was what brought him here. What kept him here.

Who is he to drag down others?

He returns Bowser's ring.

"I'm sorry."

Bowser never deserved to have him weigh him down.

"I wasted my life chasing after a family I never got, and then spent my death doing the exact same thing."

Bowser awkwardly matches Luigi's bitter laugh.

"I lived my life, be it a short one, but you deserve to live yours."

Luigi pats the ring on his hand.

"I hope she likes it." He smiles. He means it. Peach sounds wonderful.

Tears prick Bowser's eyes, and all because...

He never did tell Luigi about him and Peach, did he? He can't help but laugh. Tears streaming down his face kinda laugh. The laugh you only get once a year kind of laugh.

"You spent, what? Maybe five non-consecutive years chasing after a family? Try twenty!"

Luigi's eyebrow goes up. This is supposed to be a super emotional goodbye and this goobers laughing? On about his conquest to marry Peach (who, apparently, is already married) and make his picturesque life. Luigi can't help but laugh, because it's so stupid that Bowser's laughing about this right now.

"Her and her stupid, human, mustachioed husband Mario have been kicking my ass for decades. I promise you, boo, you weren't ever getting in the way of anything."

Mario?!

"Mario?" (!)

"You heard of him?"

The excitement in Luigi's eyes (and aura) is obvious.

"My brother's name is Mario!"

With a look of determination, Bowser promises he'll tell Luigi the story of all his and Mario's exploits if he does him two favors.

Leaves this, frankly, ugly and decrepit mansion with him. Because this story needs atmosphere.

Puts the ring back on his finger. Because how else is everybody going to know they're engaged?

Luigi gives a grin.

He looks down the stairs. What about doing his due-diligence?

"I promise you, boo, if fate brought you and Peasley together, and pushed you down those stairs, and brought us together, and then pushed him down the stairs, fate is on your side."

Luigi's lips are still pursed.

"And it's almost sunrise," Bowser points out.

"So?"

"Well, we've waited almost all night, seems like a fair amount of time to me. It's obviously a lost cause."

At that, Luigi begins laughing. Not quite Bowser's guttural, teary laugh, but certainly a cackle. Enough to turn his aura back to a vibrant green, just like before. Enough to make him hunch over and take some (not really) much needed gulps of air.

When the laughing dies down to a hurt giggle, Bowser assures him that:

"You didn't kill him, Weeg."

No. I guess he didn't, did he?

Looking down the stairs one last time, (his death completely bloodless, the lucky bastard), Luigi's brows furrow for a second and he twiddles his thumbs.

If Luigi's learned one thing from being a condemned ghost, it's that you should take every chance you get.

The bottom of the stairs don't look so intimidating now.

"I...

I forgive you."

Maybe that is all Peasley deserves.

Luigi deserves to have another chance. And maybe Peasley does too, maybe he'll find one in the next lucky winner of poker. Someones gotta replace his spot at the table.

Bowser shares that he certainly deserves a mother to his children, and he's already got a quality candidate who's proved he's got what it takes. ("One who cooks, cleans, can't call in sick, die, and is pretty good looking! I hit the jackpot!")

Maybe, at the very least, Luigi deserves to see his brother one last time.

And maybe a few more times after that, for good measure.

Anyways so the original plan was just to have either Luigi and Bowser straight up immediately abandon the crime scene (not really crime scene) or have Luigi sit in the mansion forever and live out a miserable existence.

But I couldn't do that to my boys now could I. (But Peasley still gets abandoned because screw Peasley I hate that little bean man /j).

This wasn't meant to turn out in the format it did but, y'know, it did. Just know this isn't brief but also isn't comprehensive. I might (big emphasis on might) make a shorter headcanon post on this, but we'll see.

I hope you enjoyed. And sorry for the length, I am not known and will never be known for being concise.

[cyberpunkonline]

The Best Halloween-Themed Games on the SNES: Spooky, 16-bit Chills

Alright, ghouls and gamers, it’s time to dust off that Super Nintendo and dive headfirst into the ultimate spooky showdown. This one’s for the #CyberSamhain event, so grab your controller, crank up the volume, and prepare for a night of pixelated terror! The SNES wasn’t just for cutesy plumbers and pink puffballs, nah—this bad boy had some of the creepiest, most spine-chilling games of the 16-bit era. From haunted mansions to demon-infested castles, these gems will have you double-checking under the bed before you turn the lights off.

So without further ado, let’s break down the SNES’ best Halloween-themed games, where the horror is real, the graphics are top-tier (for the 90s, anyway), and the scares come packaged in beautiful 16-bit glory. Ready? Let’s do this.

1. Super Castlevania IV (1991) You wanna slay Dracula? Of course, you do. And Super Castlevania IV is hands down one of the best ways to do it. You’re Simon Belmont, cracking that whip, taking down skeletons, vampires, and all kinds of gothic nasties on your way to Dracula’s crib. The game’s eerie music and creepy backgrounds scream Halloween vibes, with a perfect mix of tension and action. I mean, if you’re not fighting evil in a haunted castle, are you even gaming?

Resource: Hardcore Gaming 101 did a sweet write-up on Super Castlevania IV that’s worth checking out if you need to brush up on your Dracula-slaying skills.

2. Zombies Ate My Neighbors (1993) Look, this one HAD to be here. Zombies Ate My Neighbors is a 90s masterpiece where you and a buddy can team up to blast through hordes of monsters. We’re talking zombies, werewolves, vampires, and yes, even killer dolls. You save your neighbors using everything from squirt guns to bazookas, with some absolutely wild levels. Plus, with those cheesy 50s horror movie vibes, it’s got all the fun and none of the nightmare fuel. Well, unless giant babies freak you out (I mean, who isn’t freaked out by that?!).

Resource: GameFAQs has some killer guides on Zombies Ate My Neighbors if you’re struggling to save all the Karens on your block.

3. Ghoul Patrol (1994) A lesser-known sequel to Zombies Ate My Neighbors, but it’s still got the charm and spooky aesthetic. In Ghoul Patrol, our teen heroes return, this time battling spirits, mummies, and more. The gameplay is pretty similar, but with better graphics and some fresh mechanics. Okay, it’s not as good as the first one, but it still deserves a spot in your Halloween gaming lineup. Plus, how many games let you fight off ghost samurais? Exactly.

Resource: The nerds over at Retro Gamer have a deep dive into the Ghoul Patrol sequel, so give that a read if you’re ready to patrol the ghouls.

4. Demon’s Crest (1994) Forget playing the hero. In Demon’s Crest, you’re the baddie—a gargoyle demon named Firebrand, rising from the ashes to take down anyone in your way. Think of it as a darker, moodier Metroidvania, with gothic environments, eerie music, and a surprisingly deep story. The graphics are pure SNES perfection, with haunting details that will make your Halloween feel like an epic saga of revenge. Plus, who doesn’t want to be a demon with wings and flames at their fingertips?

Resource: For more about Demon’s Crest, go hit up MobyGames, where they’ll take you through the history of one of the SNES’ most underrated gems.

5. Super Ghouls 'n Ghosts (1991) Now, this one’s for the masochists out there. Super Ghouls 'n Ghosts is hard. I’m talking controller-throwing, shout-at-the-TV hard. But that’s what makes it so perfect for Halloween. You’re Arthur, the knight with an awful tendency to lose his armor, running through demon-infested lands, trying to rescue the princess (classic). The game is loaded with zombies, werewolves, and bosses that’ll make your palms sweat. Sure, you’ll die—a lot—but man, it’s all worth it for that sweet victory when you finally beat the final boss.

Resource: For those of you who love pain (aka challenging games), Super Ghouls 'n Ghosts has its very own fan section on Sega-16, where you can read more about how it became a 16-bit legend.

6. Clock Tower (Japan Only - 1995) Okay, so technically this wasn’t released outside Japan during the SNES era, but it’s so freakin’ good that it’s gotta be on the list. Clock Tower is pure survival horror—no weapons, no powers, just you and your wits against a maniac with giant scissors. You play as Jennifer, trapped in a creepy mansion, trying to escape while solving puzzles and dodging the Scissorman (because scissors are apparently terrifying). This one’s slow, tense, and packed with jump scares, making it the ultimate Halloween game. If you haven’t played it yet, find yourself a translation ROM and thank me later.

Resource: The fine folks at HG101 (Hardcore Gaming 101) have a stellar article on Clock Tower, diving deep into what makes this survival horror classic an unforgettable experience.

7. Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1993) Sometimes you just need a game based on a movie—and Bram Stoker’s Dracula for the SNES does a solid job at adapting the gothic horror. You’re battling your way through London, slaying everything from wolves to Dracula himself. It’s got a moody, atmospheric vibe that makes it perfect for Halloween. Is it the best game on this list? Nah, but if you’re looking to scratch that "I wanna be a vampire hunter" itch, this one’s worth a spin.

Resource: Check out The Cutting Room Floor, where they go into all the weird development secrets behind Bram Stoker’s Dracula and more.

Final Thoughts Whether you’re into haunting soundtracks, demon-slaying action, or co-op mayhem, the SNES has a spooky game for you. Halloween is the perfect time to fire up that retro console (or emulator, we won’t judge) and get lost in some 16-bit nightmares. From gory action to ghostly scares, the SNES has it all covered for your #CyberSamhain event. Just make sure you’ve got enough lives… things are about to get scary.

[cantsayidont]

Some movies, considered chronologically:

THE FLAMINGO KID (1984): Nostalgia-burdened period piece, set in 1963, about working-class kid Jeffrey (Matt Dillon), who gets a summer job parking cars at an exclusive beach club called El Flamingo, starts dating a rich girl (Carole R. Davis), and becomes fascinated by her father (Richard Crenna), a self-made sports car dealer and local card sharp who thinks college is sucker's game. This alienates Jeffrey's own father (Hector Elizondo), a stalwart plumber who doesn't want to see Jeffrey squander his chances of bettering himself. The story is thus a sort of YA prototype of Oliver Stone's later WALL STREET — a Reagan-era morality play about a young man caught between two father figures, one representing the Lure of Easy Money and the other a paragon of Honest Hard Work — badly undermined by its absurdly idealized longing for the alleged innocence of the Kennedy era (underlined by an obnoxious oldies soundtrack). It offers a meaty role for Crenna, but as a drama, it has less substance than FERRIS BUELLER'S DAY OFF. Davis's character is such a nonentity that you keep forgetting she's there, and the way she ends up functioning as a proxy for Jeffrey's obsession with her dad is awkward. CONTAINS LESBIANS? Nope. VERDICT: A simple-minded story blinded by its rose-colored glasses.

THE JOY LUCK CLUB (1993): Sudsy but affecting episodic adaptation of Amy Tan's novel about four middle-aged Chinese women and their strained relationships with their Chinese-American daughters, starring Ming-Na Wen and nearly every other Chinese actress working in the U.S. at the time. The way the script segues between the characters' respective stories is clunky, and it often teeters on the brink of schmaltz, but there are moments of real dramatic power amongst the more superficial tearjerker moments, and you'd have to have a stonier heart than I to not sob at the bittersweet ending. Strong acting helps, with Tsai Chin particularly good as Auntie Lindo. CONTAINS LESBIANS? It seems like it should, but alas. VERDICT: Heavy-handed at times, but undeniably moving.

COLD COMFORT FARM (1996): Before she became an action star, Kate Beckinsale starred in this hilarious adaptation of Stella Gibbons' 1932 satiric novel about glib orphan Flora Poste, who makes it her project to fix all the problems of the titular farm and its eccentric denizens — distant cousins who feel obligated to Flora (whom they will only address as "Robert Poste's child") because of some unspecified wrong they once did her late father. Among the inmates of Cold Comfort are Cousin Judith (Eileen Atkins), a hysterically morose creature straight out of a gothic novel; Cousin Amos (Ian McKellen), a fire-and-brimstone preacher who warns his brethren, "There'll be no butter in Hell!"; Amos and Judith's oversexed son Seth (Rufus Sewell), a local stud who dreams of being in the talkies; and of course Aunt Ada Doom (Sheila Burrell), who rules the family with an iron fist and won't let anyone forget that she once saw something nasty in the woodshed. A delightfully silly spoof of a particular category of once-popular English literature, as the farm's assorted grim melodramas prove no match for the implacable (if somewhat snobbish) modern sensibilities of its plucky heroine. CONTAINS LESBIANS? Nope. VERDICT: Great fun throughout, although Stephen Fry irritates as a boorish "Laurentian person" who keeps hitting on Flora despite her obvious disinterest.

BREAKDOWN (1997): Competent but underwhelming Jonathan Mostow thriller starring Kurt Russell and Kathleen Quinlan as Jeff and Amy Taylor, a couple of Yuppies whose fancy Jeep breaks down on the highway on a trip from Massachusetts to California. A passing trucker (J.T. Walsh) gives Amy a ride into the nearest town to find them a tow truck, but when Jeff gets their Jeep running again and follows her into town, he finds that Amy has disappeared, and no one, including the trucker, will admit to having seen her. It has a great premise, and Russell is credible enough in the lead, but it's pretty ordinary, and, once you know what's going on (which is revealed a little over a half-hour in), pretty superficial — there's no psychological depth, and I kept waiting for some other story twist that never came. CONTAINS LESBIANS? It barely contains women (Amy is absent for 80 percent of the running time). VERDICT: Not bad, but nothing special, and you'll forget it 10 minutes after it ends.

MY TWO HUSBANDS (2024): Okay Lifetime thriller about a young woman named Eliza (Isabelle Almoyan), still reeling from the recent murder of her mother (Joanie Geiger), who becomes deeply suspicious of her father's young new wife, a flight attendant named Brooke (Kabby Borders) who's no older than Eliza — and, as the title alludes, is secretly married to another man (Britton Webb, who looks like a lesser Baldwin brother) and up to no good. Despite the cheesy title (which is really also a spoiler) and awkward marketing (which misleadingly suggests a comedy-drama with Brooke rather than Eliza as the main character), it has a surprisingly decent, reasonably credible script, hamstrung by very weak performances. The story is still interesting enough to make it a not-bad little thriller, although it would have been better with a stronger cast and less somnabulistic direction. CONTAINS LESBIANS: It sometimes seems like Eliza's friend Star (Kristen Grace Gonzalez) might be her girlfriend, but the script is noncommittal on this point. VERDICT: A B+ script burdened with D+ acting and C- direction.

[goamazons]

Dear Amazons and visitors,

My brister @wistfulpoltergeist and I are restarting our Sims4 story "The Plumber of Hill House". Thanks to continuous breakdowns of the game, it has moved from unreliable Sims 4 into the Blender realm, with higher-quality visuals and 100% independence from the EA quirks. It takes more time and effort, but it's worth it!

So, get ready for the spooky twists of the gothic suspense horror with the elements of mystery and gay romance, inspired by The Haunting of Hill House. Enjoy, and if you like it, don't forget to share =^_^=

Available here or by the hashtag #EtgomaStories

♫Agnes Obel - It's Happening Again♫

[sloptime]

Ok but the thing is the thing is, you're kinda misrepresenting the game

(incoming long post)

Tl;Dr: To me, someone familiar with HtR, it seems you have a fundamental misunderstanding about what the game is all about. I urge you to give it another chance and reconsider your opinion.

HtR isn't about playing superheroes or holy warriors and it's not a game about playing the oppressor if anything it's the opposite. On a meta level I would say one of its major themes is empathy, considering how callously, cruelly even, humans are treated by the other splats. It's about putting yourself in the shoes of a normal person finding out they live in the world of darkness

You might say the imbued aren't normal people. They aren't crusaders on a mission from God to purge the world. They aren't angelic warriors or battle priests or tier one operators or government spooks. They're bus drivers, garbage men, plumbers, lawyers, doctors, cops, firefighters, paramedics, sons, daughters, wives, husbands, human beings who've had their eyes forced open by something utterly beyond their comprehension and forced to act.

Sure they have extraordinary abilities but they also have friends, a family, a dog, a shitty job that they need to make rent on their shitty apartment, they're still entirely normal people. The powers themselves aren't even that good and only serve to turn the tide in a pivotal moment (hence the name, edges. An edge up on the supernatural), a hunter couldn't get by just using the powers because they A. Are limited by conviction, basically the fuel for the powers, B. Terrifying and slowly drive you insane, C. Won't be able to stop a pissed off vampire from ripping you in half. The game gives many options for approaching the supernatural, whether you want to kill the monsters, save them from themselves, find common ground and maybe even peace, or just protect you and yours, there's an archetype for that.

Considering that you said you only skimmed it, I highly recommend giving it another shot. HtR has stellar writing, it's honestly a great read. The characters are varied, down to earth, and compelling and the tone is so oppressive and conspiratorial, the horror works in my honest opinion. Besides some mildly problematic writing (I chalk it up to it being a product of it's time) I really have no problem with it. I think it would be worth your while.

By superhero I mean someone who has power without also being a monster. I did read about the messengers, and while they leave things up to interpretation, I think their choice of imagry and their name 'the reckoning' makes it pretty obvious what they're alluding to. Of course, all white wolf games need a degree of positive interpretation and erasing of some lines to enjoy, but I am just not the kind of player who's gonna enjoy it. I don't really like playing Mages, Mummies or sorcerers either for the same reason, power without enough consequences. You're not a monster unless you choose to be one, it's just not what I go to World of Darkness for.

I do appreciate WoD characters who are normal people, I admit I find it a lot more compelling when Janet the Secretary is forced to become a Ventrue than when Janet the Secretary gets some superpowers and realizes there are monsters to fight. I'm sure it's full of some compelling writing, these games always are, but if you're not tainted by the power you've been given, I just don't see the point in making it a Gothic Horror game. I'd rather play those kinds of characters in more straightforward fantasy or sci Fi adventure games, and if I am gonna be not a tainted monster, I want to be a completely normal person with no supernatural powers at all.

While I do feel compelled to criticize what I see as reactionary tendencies inside these games, I'm not calling you a bad person for liking them, I'm just posting my feelings on my blog here. So by all means, enjoy your taste, it's just not what I'm interested in..

[plumbergilbert3]

Avoid the Top 10 Mistakes Made by Beginning Plumber

Did you had any idea that York's minster has its own police force - its valid! The main other basilica on the planet which can flaunt this is St. Peter's in Rome which has its own police force as the Swiss Gatekeepers. Here we have assembled a rundown of fascinating realities about York.

Plumbing Gilbert AZ

There is a road in York called The Ruins which is the place where antiquated butchers used to carry out their specialty. The upper storeyz of the fifteenth century houses incline inwards up to this point that the rooftops on either side nearly contact. Strolling this road, you will see raised asphalts either side of the principle cobbled street which structure the channel through which the butchers would wash away offal and blood.

York is saturated with archaic history, the fortification dividers and bars (doors) to the city were worked during this period and are still incredibly safeguarded today.

The minster is the second biggest gothic church in Europe and its development required a shocking 250 years. The Plumbing Gilbert AZ minster likewise has its own police force, the main other basilica on the planet which can flaunt this is St. Peter's in Rome which has the Swiss Gatekeepers. York's first Minster was worked for the submersion of Old English Saxon Ruler Edwin of North umbria in 627. The first church was a little wooden development that had been worked for the submersion and was later revamped in stone on Edwin's requests.

York has highlighted in many film and television series sets throughout the long term, for example, Ladies head Returned to and Robinson Crusoe. York likewise has in excess of 360 bars, somewhere around one for all year long. York's economy was once generally determined by the rail lines and the chocolate business and without a doubt today you might in any case smell cocoa in the air while strolling around the city's roads.

York holds the UK's biggest food celebration, held every September and enduring 10 days. York additionally has its own race course and yearly live performance. The Relationship of Willful Aides allow free two hour strolling voyages through York consistently.

York was named the most spooky city in Plumber Scottsdale Europe by the Apparition Exploration Establishment Global (GRFI), the principal recorded phantom strolls started here in the mid 1970's regardless run a bustling exchange today.

For More Details Click : Plumbing Gilbert AZ

[your-local-uwu-artist]

FUNNY VAMPIRE PLUMBER NSKJFHSKJ

i mean it'll probably be quite a while before he starts working again considerin git already took him a while to like, go outside at all dnfjksdfa

i try not to share these things cause if i just tell everyone eveyrthing than they wont send me the asks i so desperately desire fnsdjkfhkad

but screw it yeah vampire weegee rambles under the cut >:DDD

he doesnt have very good healthy by vampire standards, like hes just malnourished which makes him more vulnerable to vampire weeknesses like the sun etc

also apparently bats can purr so he defintly purrs no explanation needed ndjhfakd

he also def hangs upside down on couches (like legs over the top of the couch)

for a guy without a reflection he is pretty insecure about his appearance

he actually doesn't know what he looks like, and while hes curious hes also really scared to ask anybody, he does know that his ears are pointed and his pale skin but he is unaware of his eye color changing

hes actually really upset about not resembling is brother much anymore

a lot of vampires can shapeshift a good amount to look older, younger, less or more human, as well as more feminine or masculine physical traits, but luigi doesnt have the stamina/health to do this

i am gonna go ahead and say that he could turn into a bat though he hasnt tried yet

i have already designed his bat form (as well as charlottes adorable bat form, sense charlotte is younger, well like physically/ sorta mentally younger her bat form is a lil baby bat <3)

he does have echolocation though + can purr

ALSO ABTS CAn PUTE THATS ASADORABLE TO EM

fndak i really want to be able to get the side story with mario enough attention so that people may actually speculate on charlottes backstory fndkajfs but at the same time i am going to burst and just wanna spoil it fnsdjkafhkjds

i also really wanna make a chibi template of luigi so i can draw every outfit ive drawn him in

i know it technically doesnt make any sense for luigi to dress all that different but my soul requires gothic lolita aesthetic lmao dnajk

daisy is the most accidentally insensitive about luigi's condition

like she will ask him myth questions and make jokes about it the most

some of them make luigi uncomfortable (specefically when she romanticizes it / expresses she finds vampires hot) but he knows she means well and at the least he does like how she doesn't make him feel like, othered/dehumanizing, like ultimately she doesnt treat him any differently (which is sometimes a problem on its own sense she'll forget things like luigi shouldnt go into the sunlight)

bowser is supportive but in like a passive somwhat passive agressive way, like he is just completely unfazed and nonchalant about it all

mario is fucking unwaveringly supportive

i cant wait for charlotte debut so bad cause i want to make mario that uncle/dad/older brother kinda character towards her (like sans and garry from ib, that uncle/dad/big brother vibes combo ) i want to make it so wholesome and silly

i know most people tend to depict mario as like,more vengeful ormore angry especially in bowuigi content ( i have nothing against this! wrtiers depicting him this way you a rad i enjoy your work and i hope your enjoying making it >;DDD) but i do personally prefer to write him as just very silly and carefree

like very much the "yeah bowser kidnaps princess peach but also mario babysits his kids jokingly no homo style flirts with him and they have fun playign golf and karting "

princess peach is litterally so sweet and considerate without even needing to be told which both helps and hurts luigi alot sense he worries about hurting her in particular a lot but also he feels supported and even somewhat normal sometimes

like immediately adding welcome sign at the castle entrance, removing a lot of decorative mirros and replacing them with paintings and flower vases etc.

i really want to get into luigi's idenitity issues at some point, he's struggling a lot with that sense it's a lot easier to think of himself as somebody with vampirism vs a vampire, this loss of humanity is something i really want to explore more

i actually briefly mentioned this on that post about the mario werewolf au idea but i also have another au off of this au which is just a vague idea for a story after luigi outlives everyone where marios a ghost (not being able to move on without his brother)

anyway my ask box over there is litterally always open lmao

HMMPPPPHHH that @ask-vampire-weegee brainrot be takin over

[nonobadcat]

A real world AU Gothic Romance - part 2/3

Artwork by the amazing @obsidianne-art

Pairing: Ghost Shigaraki X Fem!Reader

Rating: Readers 18+ only

Content Warnings: Dead dog mention, PnO, V/oy with stalker vibes, self-care of an adult nature, mentions of a rich family being jerks to working class Reader

Chapter Two Word Count: 3.9k, Ao3 Mirror

Part I ---❤--- Part 3

Saturday, October 22nd, 2022

Slamming the door of your ten year old car, you ducked your head under one arm and raced through the cold, October rain. By the time the front door banged shut, wet tendrils of wild hair were plastered to your skin. Wiping your forehead, you kicked off your muddy shoes and threw your patched, Carhartt coat over the grand newel at the front of the stairs.

Making a fake mouth with your hand, you mimicked a nasally whine. “Do you really need to go in and out so many times? You’re letting the cold in! Jayden-Breydon-Ashton-Trenton will get pneumonia and his lungs will be damaged. If my perfect child can’t win at every sport known to man because of you, I'll sue! My husband’s a lawyer! Our congressman will hear about this!” Your tool bag thumped to the floor as you trudged up the stairs grumbling to yourself. “Yeah, and your Karen nonsense is gonna pay quadruple time before I go out at seven on a Saturday cause your dumb brat flushed his plastic army men down the toilet. Again!”

As you turned the final step, your dominant hand’s pointer finger caught on the rail, forcing the already injured digit back a painful 190 degrees. A stream of violent curses poured from your mouth, dripping onto the antique banister with enough acidic bite to melt the finish. Peeling off the plastic Pokémon bandaid, you glared at the inch long slice down the inside of your knuckle. 

“Friggen yuppie bedroom communities and their cookie cutter, spliced together McMansions!” you grumbled, slamming a flat palm into the bedroom door. It banged open, bouncing off the newly installed spring stopper before sliding to a halt. Ripping off your coveralls, you tossed the filthy, muck soaked mess into the plastic basket marked “Work Clothes” in half erased black sharpie. “Small wonder the plumbing is always clogged. The builder did such a junk job that crap rolls up the pipes! Another Bryane Homes special!”

Flinging your undergarments to the creamy, hex tile floor, you flipped on the shower, listening to the old pipes thump twice before water finally emerged. Air in the lines again, huh? Looks like this weekend you'd be leak checking everything that "master plumber" did, again. The previous homeowner sure didn't know how to find a handyman.

Stepping past the glass door into the recently remodeled shower of beige stone, you snagged your favorite body wash and mopped the stink of the day off your skin. The splash of water on the stainless drain grate mingled with deep sighs, ventilation fans, and the clunk of your skull on smooth tile. 

"I hate humanity!" you groaned, burying your head in your hands.

After completing your nightly routine, you opened the bedroom door, letting the warm, humid air fill the cold, dry room. Hard rain pelted the windows, rolling in thick droplets down the dark glass. Thunder rumbled in the distance as you padded naked and barefoot across the oak floor. You snapped on the small table lamp near your bed and headed for the wardrobe.

The royal purple, babydoll chemise slipped onto your body like a glove. Lacy, princess seams and triangular cups were lined with smooth raylon for discreet, but suggestive coverage. Trimmed with tiny satin bows, the mesh back hugged your curves before dipping into a graceful, flowing skirt. A ruffled hem hung two inches below your crotch line, showing off soft thighs and tiger-striped stretch marks. Tugging on cute panties, you climbed into smooth, cool sheets and pulled the flimsy microfiber comforter over your shoulders. The bedside light snapped off. Heavy lids drifted shut.

The tritone blast of a train whistle rattled through the windows. With a groan, you pulled your flat pillow over your head and buried your face in the mattress. Steady click-clacks accompanied the dull roar that poured in on the blustering winds. Eye twitching, you looked up just as lightning flashed across the room. Caught in the bright glare, red eyes glowed in the mirror.

Hold up, what?!

You sat bolt upright, clutching the cheap blanket to your chest. The pounding of your heart drowned out the next thunder clap. You squinted at the looking glass, but there was no sign of anything but the bathroom light.

Aw crap. Duh. The bathroom!

The bedside lamp clicked back on. With a frustrated snarl, you trapsed across the room and flipped the wall switch, snuffling out the CFL above the toilet. Tugging the door shut, you cast a wary glance at the old mirror. Still nothing there. Shaking your head, you crawled back into bed and flicked the table light off again.

Fifteen minutes after the train blew past, you lay in bed, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling. Though softening droplets made for relaxing background noise, itchy eyes and a wild imagination refused to let you rest. Counting down from one hundred proved useless.You’d tensed and released your entire body muscle by muscle, twice. Four-Seven-Eight breathing did little to ease your racing mind. You swallowed, realizing the one thing you hadn’t tried yet.

Oh yeah right! Like you could get off when those burning eyes were seared into your brain!

Rolling over for the fiftieth time, you spotted the murky outline of the mahogany secretary through the shadows. Huh… Well, if sexy thoughts were too awkward, maybe picturing something cute and heartwarming would do?

You groaned, pressing your palms to your dry eyes. Throwing off the covers, you walked to the old writing desk and flopped down the front panel. The key clicked in the latch. You extracted the picture of the Shimura children and their dog before heading back to bed. The bedside lamp flipped on. Your hand traced the edge of the old photograph.

“Geeze, you both were really cute kids.” You pursed your lips, checking the date. Tidy, pencil lead scrawl read: 1884.  “Ugh… The poor dog only made it a year?! Screw that puppy puncher!” 

You laid the photo on the nightstand, before flopping back onto your bed. As you curled onto your side, half-stuffed blankets cupped your cheek. You yawned, picturing the sweet smile on the little boy's face. Warm, dark eyes beamed with joy as he clutched his new friend like a treasure. You hummed, grabbing a roll of the comforter and dragging it to your chest. If you closed your eyes, you could almost feel soft fur and excited panting, as if you were the one with a puppy in your arms. The steady thump of rain on glass reminded you of a fast paced doggie heartbeat. Buried face first in your fantasy, your breathing slowed. Tired limbs grew heavy as your brain floated away.

“I hope you did okay after everything, Tenko,” you murmured into the blankets. “I wish I could have met you.”

Racing through the pounding rain, you braced a hand over your eyes. The light of the grand house ahead pierced the blurry haze, guiding you up the gravel drive. Slick kidskin boots took the stairs two at a time. Wet hands shoved slimy strands of ruined hair behind your ears. Cold precipitation soaked through your waist-hugging wool coat. The fashionable bell sleeves of the short, double breasted jacket did little to protect your blouse from the elements. Water dripped from the poofy edge of cream silk bishop sleeves. You tugged out the long pins that clamped your toque hat to your head. Rain had flooded the dark beaver felt. The tiny brim sagged low like your mood. With as much dignity as you could muster, you straightened the deep purple kick pleats of your wool skirt before rapping on the door. 

Kerosene lamplight spilled out onto the porch as a tall, imposing butler in a double breasted suit stared down at you. “May I help you?” he asked. 

You squinted to make out his features, but even holding a lantern, his face was obscured by shadow. Swallowing your nerves, you rolled your shoulders back. The wet plip-plop from saturated silk ruined the image. Still, you raised your chin. “I am terribly sorry to bother you, but my bicycle tire went flat just before sunset. I must have gotten turned around in the lane during the storm and now I’m hopelessly lost. May I stay here until morning?”

“Kurogiri,” a gravelly voice growled from the front parlor. “Show her in.”

“Of course,” the butler replied, bowing at the waist. He held one arm out, gesturing to the open door. “Please, come this way.”

Leaving puddles with each step of your button-up ankle boots, you trod soddenly into the next room. Sumptuous scarlet wallpaper patterned with geometric golden rings glowed in the dim yellow light of the brass and glass wall sconce. A high backed, Rococo revival sofa set sat atop a plush, hand knotted wool rug. Across a throne of golden floral brocades, the evening paper lay tossed aside. You followed long, slender ankles up black merino trousers to a smoking jacket the color of pinot noir. Single breasted and well fit, its shawl collar was trimmed in deep ebony velvet. Instead of buttons, two ornate frog closures nipped in at the waist. White collar unbuttoned to his throat latch and leaning against the window, the master of the house peered at you with burning red eyes. Flowing waves of silver-white hair cascaded around his heart shaped face. When you froze, he scratched the side of his dry, peeling neck and grinned at you.

“Retro suits you,” he teased. 

Dumbfounded, you stared at the handsome twenty something.

With a hum, he rose to his feet and moved a plush, small stool nearer to the fireplace. “Kurogiri, prepare a hot bath.”

The butler snapped his heels and headed up the stairs, leaving you dripping on the not-so-old wood floor.

Your host patted the rich, tufted upholstery. “Take off your coat and get warm before you catch the flu.”

Horrified, you waved your hands. “I’m soaked! I’ll ruin your furniture!”

Rolling his eyes, he stalked across the room and snatched up your wrist. “You made it this far barging into my life, why worry about it now?”

As howling wind rattled the bay windows, you shivered.

The slender man pushed you down onto the plush seat, plucking the buttons of your tightly fitted coat before you could protest. He shook it out, spattering water across the ivory carpet before hanging it over the back of a chair. “See?” he demanded, pointing to the pristine rug. “It doesn’t matter here.”

“Here?” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “What do you mean?”

He snorted, flopping down on the sofa. Resting his pointy elbows on his knees, he smirked at your over folded hands. “It’s just a dream. You can’t ruin anything.”

"A dream?" You peeked around him at the elegant impressionist paintings on the walls. Through the open door, you spotted a square based, bone china vase on a familiar mahogany table. Startled eyes flicked back to the man before you. "Hey wait a second, this is—"

"My home," he finished with a taunting sneer. "I lived here long before you did."

You narrowed your eyes, scanning up and down his features. "Who are you?"

With a scowl, he pointed to his nose. "Seriously? You're the one who asked to meet me, idiot."

As he threw himself back in the chair, the kerosene lamplight faded from his face. Dark waves and almond eyes dragged the picture of the little boy to the front of your mind. You lept to your feet in excitement.

"Tenko?! Tenko Shimura?!"

The man before you cringed like he'd been smacked with a brick. Grabbing your arm, he dragged you down to his level. "Don't call me that! That's not my name!"

Wobbly, worn out legs threatened to pitch you forward into his lap. When your knees buckled, panicked hands caught the wooden frame of the sofa. With his face only an inch away, brilliant red irises reminded you of living rubies. Though his brow hair had been burned away and the skin under his eyes looked painfully dry, the adorable mole on his right chin made your heart skip. Your breath caught in your throat. The tiny scar on his left lip curled with his sneer. Blazing heat splashed over your skin, surging up into your head like three glasses of sherry. 

Oh crap… he was stupid hot!

"O-oh!" you stammered, forcing a pinched laugh. "I'm… er… um…" Your eyes rolled away from his pointed stare. "Sorry." 

With an irritated sigh, he loosed your arm and scratched his neck. "Just don't call me Shimura again, got it?"

"Of course! I'm really sorry!" Swallowing down the stone in your throat, you fiddled with your fingers. "I would have changed my name too, given the circumstances."

He tossed you a proud smirk. "I knew you would understand."

A pointed cough echoed from the door. "Master Shigaraki," the butler called. "The bath is ready, as you requested."

Freshly aware of exactly how close your face was to your host, you jolted backwards. The heel of your boots caught on the plush carpet. Just as you started to slip, Shigaraki wrapped one arm around your corseted waist and pulled you into his chest.

"Shall we go upstairs?" he purred in your ear.

Okay… now you were wet for an entirely different reason.

Step by step, the master of the house led you up the walnut treads towards the far bedroom. He smelled like feral cumin-musk and spicy cloves. As you passed the master suite, you raised a curious brow.

"That was my parents’," he explained, pulling you along. "I never wanted to sleep in the same place as that man."

"Oh…" you murmured, following him into the northern bedroom. "That makes a lot of sense.”

In your-er… his sleeping quarters, the gothic revival bed set and elegant writing desk sat in the same spots as their present-day counterparts. However, the warm amber stain looked much less yellow than in your time. Beyond the pocket bathroom door, polished marble tiles led to a gilded porcelain soaking tub. Steam poofed into the cold air, curling up past cream silk papered walls delicately trimmed with gold leaf. Dried lavender potpourri scented the room. A fluffy towel lay neatly folded on the mother-of-pearl pedestal sink.

The fingers on your corset dipped down to your hips as he loomed over your shoulder. Warm breath tickled your ear.  "After your bath, you can apologize properly for your mistake.”

A coy smile curled onto your lips. “Define properly?”

Two fingers gripped your chin and turned your face to his. Red eyes drifted shut. “Take a guess.”

Shigaraki's lips tasted of wine and copper. With a moan, you leaned into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands drifted to the buttons on the back of your wool skirt. It slumped to the floor, pooling around your ankles. A soft tongue stroked yours. You met his motions with heated enthusiasm. Deft fingers plucked the fasteners of your wet, ruffled blouse until it slipped from your shoulders. Tangling his hand in your stays, he tugged your s-curve corset and its cover free. Your thumbs hooked under your drawers and petticoat, throwing them to the ground. Kicking them away, all that remained between you and him was a thin, silk chemise and one pair of stubborn, button-up boots.

“How on earth do you people even get to the good part?!” you demanded, squatting to fight with the brass closures.

He cackled. “A little excited are we?”

You reached up and cupped the bulge in his trousers. “You’re one to talk," you fired back with a naughty wink.

The pale man groaned, snatching your wrist into his strong grip. His cheeks flushed pink. “If you want to make it to that bath, stop now," he rasped.

Raising an eyebrow at him, you flashed him a saucy smirk. “Bold of you to assume I give a rat’s about the bath.” 

All at once, Shigaraki dragged you to your feet, smashing his lips against yours like he intended to eat you alive. As you giggled, he broke the kiss and marched you back into the bedroom. “Wagtail,” he growled, tossing a pillow on the floor.

Settling yourself on your knees, you pawed at the front of his pants. “I don't know what that means, but I like dogs.”

Fortunately for everyone involved, his pants had far fewer buttons than your stupid shoes. You fumbled with the frog closures for only a moment before shoving the velvet smoking jacket out of the way. Untucking his long shirtwaist, your fun screeched to a halt when you encountered long underwear.

“What the actual—” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “So much for a strip tease!” Faking a pout, you tugged on his shirt. “Help a horny girl out?”

With a snort of laughter, Shigaraki quickly shuffled out of his complex layers. By the time you got your damp chemise and stupid boots off, his stiff cock finally escaped its elborate prison. Thumb and forefinger forming a ring grip, you gave him a few experimental strokes. When he tossed his head back, white waves haloed his face. You bit your lip, savoring the ethereal beauty of his fair complexion against those haunting crimson irises. 

A firm hand cupped the back of your head. “Now you slow down?” he demanded between pants.

Tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear, you lowered your lips to his weeping, flushed tip. “Calm down. I'm just savoring the moment.”

When your hot mouth slipped over his salty head, the man above you gasped. Hollowing your cheeks, you bobbed your way down, inch by inch. Your tongue stroked the thick vein on his underside, trailing up to the small piece of tissue just below the spongy crown. Flicking the sensitive skin elicited a throaty whimper.

Shigaraki’s strong fingers curled tighter into your scalp as he loosed a garbled curse. “More,” he demanded.

You smirked at the expletive before diving back down. 

Taking his generous girth deep into your mouth, your tongue lolled around the edge of his shaft. Your free hand slid up his soft inner thighs. Rolling his balls between your fingers, you shivered when musky precum coated your tastebuds. Harsh pants from above urged you on.

As you worked him further into ecstasy, each stuttered thrust crept closer and closer to the soft roof of your mouth. You angled him away from your gag, swallowing down thick saliva. It didn’t help. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, leaving him coated in slick. Wet clicks accompanied choked whines as you worked him to the back of your throat.

Shigaraki squirmed in your hold, guiding you into a relentless pace. Your jaw ached as his swollen cock forced you to spread your teeth wider. Tears welled at your lash line. His filthy moans stoked the heat between your legs. All at once, he stiffed, his hard grip clamping down on your skull.

With a hoarse gasp, he spilled himself down your throat.

Flying up in your bed, you banged your chest as violent coughs wracked your body. By the time you cleared your sore throat, all you could smell was stale, salty breath. You groped for the clock on your night stand. Red LEDs read 3:39am. Your thighs shifted against each other. Wet need stained your panties.

“Not fair!” you whined, slamming your fist into your limp pillow. “Of course I wake up before the good part!”

Flopping back onto the mattress, you rolled onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut. How long you laid there, staring at the back of your eyelids was impossible to say. However, while the digital numbers rolled upwards, sleep danced further and further away. The cravings from your wet dream still burning in your skin, you whimpered and slipped your hand between your legs.

That was when a rip of pain reminded you of that nasty slice on your finger.

Cussing violently, you flipped on the table light. Sure enough, fresh crimson seeped across the previously clotted wound. Throwing off the covers, you gripped your bleeding finger and shuffled off to the cold bathroom. Thrusting your hand under the tap, you gingerly cleaned and dried the injury. The mirrored medicine cabinet rattled open. You peeled a brand new Pikachu Band-aid from its packaging and slapped it over the damaged digit. Closing your eyes, you leaned on the ceramic sink. It was no good. Sharp stabs from your hand couldn’t compete with the hypersensitive need crawling up your core.

As your fingers curled into the thin, cheap towel, you knew what you had to do to fall asleep.

From his glassy vantage point, Tomura watched your pursed lips and frustrated stomping with a pleased sneer. Dragging the flimsy Walmart towel from its mount, you trudged back into your bedroom and threw it on the sheets. Though the light snapped off, he could still see as clear as day. With a raised brow, he watched you ball the fabric under your hips and flop over onto your stomach. 

As you began to grind yourself on the towel, a long deceased cock sprung back to life.

One palm flat against the cool bedding, your free hand tugged the stretch lace cup of your slinky nightgown aside. Soft fingers tickled your bare breast before tweaking the pert nipple. You shuddered, loosing a slutty moan. 

Leaning against the surface of his mirror, Tomura shuffled himself out of his clothes and gripped his shaft. Watching you roll your body against the rough cloth sent a spike of pleasure through his belly. Erotic creaks from his old bed left his mouth bone dry. Your blood plumped lips and half lidded eyes made for fertile fantasies. Swiping some of the pre-cum from his slit, he began to match your pace.

As you worked yourself further and further into depravity, the show before him left Tomura feverish and panting. He watched your legs curl and slacken as you tried to find the right pressure. A few irritated grumbles accompanied rustling bed sheets. When you finally hit upon a position that made your body clench, he heard filthy pleas spilling for your lips.

“Please,” you begged, your hips vibrating against the rough fabric. “W-want your cock so bad!”

Liquid heat blazed through his veins as he fisted his swollen length. Stoking the fire with each pump, he chased the feverish sensation with single-minded desire. The sound of your eager cries and sight of your fingers teasing the pert nub propelled him forward. Hazy eyes watched your body tremble as he pictured himself balls-deep in your velvety cunt. It should be his hand teasing your tit. It should be his fingers making those slutty noises spill from your puffy lips. He clenched his teeth, losing himself in thoughts of your soft body clamped around his swollen cock.

It was then that a raspy inhale accompanied the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

“Shi-Shigaraki…” You whimpered his name, burying your face in the mattress. “Mmmm gonna… gonna—”

All at once, he exploded over the glass. Limp body leaning on the frame, he drank in the sight of your heaving chest and dazed smile. He watched you shove the towel to the floor and snuggle into the pillow. As your breathing slowed, one overpowering, addictive thought filled his brain with intoxicating lust.

He had to hear you call his real name over and over in that same, needy voice.

Taglist:

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@rekoii @down-with-the-shigness @softkao @night-shadowblood-writes2

[wri0thesley]

Hello Nat! It's me! The same anon who sent the Househusband Risotto asks a few weeks ago. Could I request a fic of Risotto with no.21(a Househusband au) and some pregnancy fluff? Congrats on 5k (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

brand new - risotto x reader

you have something to tell your husband. 

warnings: soft fluff, sfw. afab reader, no pronouns. pregnancy, talk of children, brief allusions to risotto’s past life. 

You’re surprised by just how easily Risotto falls into a domestic life.

You’d thought that his past would haunt him more; the fallen comrades, the Mafia business, the blood on his hands – but he’s surprisingly pragmatic about it, when you hesitantly bring it up.

“It happened,” he says. “I miss them. But I’ve been given a chance that they didn’t get, and I intend to take it.”

It’s more than your stoic, quiet husband usually says at once, and you feel it pierce your heart like an arrow. Your hand brushes over his broad shoulder in as much comfort as you can give him, and Risotto looks at you with the lightest smile on his lips that makes you feel like the luckiest person in the whole universe.

Risotto becomes the house-husband as if he’s been waiting to be able to do it for his whole life.

Oh, he makes some mistakes – some little things, like washing a pair of your red underwear in with some shirts that you wear for work. Planting the wrong kind of seedlings at the wrong time of year – trying to fix the plumbing himself instead of calling a plumber.

You two muddle along, but as a whole Risotto seems to be thriving, and that makes your heart leap in your chest like a prima ballerina.

Your heart thumps double when you come home after a long day of work and he already has dinner simmering on the stove, an apron wrapped around his broad frame – it’s emblazoned with the legend; “Hot Stuff Coming Through (and I don’t mean the food)”. You breathe in the scent of his cooking; something deep and rich.

You come up behind him and wrap your arms about him, resting your cheek on the centre of his back.

His muscle has gone a little soft now that he’s not working out so often or in as many life-or-death situations, but he’s still broad and amazing and perfect for holding onto.

“Smells great,” you say, sighing, kicking off your heels in kitchen to be put away later. Risotto’s eyes stray to them all higgledy-piggledy on the floor, and he frowns;

“Nonna’s recipe,” he says. “Aren’t you going to put those in the shoe rack?”

“I’ve only just gotten home,” you pout at him, but your pout quickly breaks into a smile as you see the exhaustedly fond expression on his face.

Now that he’s not an assassin – now that he doesn’t need to hide everything he’s feeling under the guise of being cool and cold and collected – Risotto’s face seems to move more. He finds it easier to express his emotions. It’s still little things; twitches and furrows, instead of his entire face transforming – but it’s more than before.

He’s comfortable. He’s happy.

You, and him, and the little world that you’ve build all around you two.

You bend over to pick up your heels, opening your mouth to say something over-dramatic about his newfound house pride – but you’re stopped by an ache that shoots down to the centre of your back, a noise of pain escaping you before Risotto can turn lightning quick and wrap a strong arm around you.

“Are you alright?” He’s asking, brow creasing slightly in concern. Panic flares in your stomach – you don’t want to tell him like this.

“Y-yeah,” you laugh it off, straightening up with your shoes in your hand, the other going to massage your back where you can reach. “Guess I was just sat in the wrong position at work for too long, huh?”

Risotto looks sceptical, but he can’t leave his boiling pots for too long. With a searching look at you, he returns to the stove, murmuring low;

“I’ll give you a massage later.”

You smile at his back as you walk towards the shoe rack in the hallway. You know that saying that will have made him blush; despite how long the two of you have been married now, he’s still nervous about things like that. His hands still shake a little when he goes to hold you. He still licks his lips before he kisses you, murmuring in a deep voice;

“Is it really alright?”

You always wind your arms around his neck and pull him in as your way of reassuring him that it’s perfectly fine. It’s hard, you think, for him to accept that he deserves all of this – but you’re eternally glad that the two of you get to share it together.

Little reminders of your shared home and life are scattered all about your home. A picture of you and Risotto at your wedding, framed and hung in the hallway; his suit is a little too tight, because he left it too long and it couldn’t be tailored properly to address the fact that he’s built like a superhero.

A bookshelf that has your romantic novels next to his own gothic horrors; a skull candle that burns red from its eyes as it melts perched on top. Also perched on top is a trinket dish that he made and painted for you at a pottery class he attended to try and get him out of the house whilst you were at work – you use it to dump your keys in.

It’s supposed to be a heart shape, but it’s more of a very uneven kidney.

The carpet you two had chosen together; you’d wanted something cheaper, but Risotto had insisted you could afford this one – he’d been right, and it’s soft beneath your stockinged feet.

You love him so much.

Your hand cups your stomach protectively now that you’re out of Risotto’s sight. You think of the tiny life inside of you; half Risotto, half you, already loved more than they’ll ever know even without Risotto knowing that it’s there. You can’t wait to tell him.

His hands are gentle on your shoulders, big and warm and softer than they once were. They’re still a little calloused from the garden work he enjoys doing, but he no longer handles weapons and you buy him sandalwood-scented hand cream instead.

They feel so good as they slide down your shoulder blades, brushing the notches of your spine, soothing circles pressed into your skin with his thumb. You sigh, relaxing into him. The feel of the palm flat against the small of your back – where the ache is the most pronounced – makes you relax even further into him, toes curling, a sigh escaping your mouth of relief.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He asks you, his voice measured. Your eyes flicker open from where they’ve closed in comfort.

“W-what’s wrong?” You ask him, nervously, and Risotto makes an ‘mm’ noise in the back of his throat. His hands do not stop the massage as he goes.

“You’ve been out of it for days,” he tells you.

(He’s right. You’ve been out of it since Monday, and it’s now Thursday; Monday is the day you’d woken up with your stomach heaving, remembered how long it had been since your last period, and bought a pregnancy test on your way to work. You’ve done three more since then, and all of them have showed the exact same result.)

“Have I?”

His hands move to your shoulders, gently twisting you around.

“You have,” he says, his red-and-dark eyes fixed firmly on you. “If there’s something wrong, I’d like to fix it.”

“It’s nothing you’ve done!” You say, all in a rush, but Risotto has successfully caught you nonetheless; his eyes narrow.

“So it is something?”

Heat rushes to your face. You forget, sometimes, because he cooks dinner and does the gardening and goes to his pottery class, that he was a battle-hardened mafia assassin who has done more interrogations than you will probably ever know (you never bring up his former employ unless he brings it up first). He’s an expert at gently needling the truth out of people.

“It’s not something that’s wrong,” you say, weakly, but his eyes are still pinning you in place.

“Tell me,” is all he says.

You think, in the back of your head, you’d had some kind of grand plans to reveal your secret – maybe involving balloons, and a cake, and a little party hat perched on top of Risotto’s silvery pale hair. You think you wanted to make a big deal out of it; one more reminder that the world he left behind is well and truly in his past now. But now you’re on the bed with him and he’s looking at you so tenderly in a soft grey shirt for sleeping and a pair of loose boxer shorts, all ruffled and sleepy and domestic . . . Now feels like a good time too.

“I’m pregnant,” you tell him.

You swear that you could hear a pin drop.

He blinks at you, as if he can’t properly process the statement.

“You’re—”

“We’re having a baby.”

“Oh my God.” His voice is very small. He reaches out, hesitantly, eyes wide – big hand hovering over your stomach. “Can I . . .?”

“Yes,” you say, breathless as his hand rests on it. It’s not curving, yet; the fancy test you’d bought today and done in the bathroom at work had said it thought you were well past three weeks, but that’s still early days. Your eyes stare down at Risotto’s scarred, huge fingers – so careful with you, despite what he’s had to do to survive.

“I can’t believe it,” he tells you, and your throat feels tight.

“Me neither,” you admit. “But . . . I’m happy.”

He meets your eyes. There are tears brimming in his – you have never seen Risotto Nero cry. You’ve seen him sad, of course (a sad downturn to his mouth when a dog dies in a movie, or when the rosebush he’d been carefully cultivating had failed to achieve a single bloom) – but there’s an actual tear rolling down his cheek, sparkling in the bedroom light.

“Me too,” he says, and it seems entirely natural. Entirely true. Your heart aches with how much you love him.

You two don’t say anything for a few minutes, content to just look at each other, the warm knowledge of what you’re sharing making the air seem hazy and unreal.

You think about the pitter patter of little feet. The spare room you can turn into a nursery. Going to pre-natal classes with Risotto, choosing baby clothes, seeing him out and about pushing a fancy perambulator (you’ve always wanted one of those tacky, over the top ones that look like a Victorian nanny’s contraption, and you know that Risotto will agree to it--).

You think about him in the delivery room, your nails making crescent moon cuts in his palm. You think about his encouraging tone; you think about the hand-grown flowers he’ll no doubt bring you.

You imagine him cradling a little bundle of joy; tiny in his huge arms. His lips leaving gentle kisses on tiny foreheads. Him reading to your baby, him tending to scrapes, him and you and your child and the life that neither of you ever thought you’d get to live together.

His face is shining, fully transformed. He sees you looking at him with droplets shimmering in your tear ducts and he wipes them away with one big, warm thumb.

“I know,” he says. “It’s not just for me. It’s for all of them, too.”

“Yes,” you say to him. Your voice breaks, pitches, as you manage to get out: “I’m so happy we get to spend the rest of our lives together.”

He looks at you, so tender you feel like you’ll come apart under his gaze.

This moment is going to shimmer in your memory forever, you think. You’re glad that this was how the reveal went. This is much more like the two of you than any fancy reveal or ribbon or cake (you might still get a cake, anyway – Risotto has a sweet tooth).

“I love you,” he says, like warmth that wraps about your heart. And then; “What about naming it Formaggio?”

There’s a beat. You stare at him.

Both of your mouths stretch into a smile, a soft huff of laughter escaping his lips that makes you feel like you’re listening to a symphony.

“Maybe we should workshop names a bit more,” you tell him.

He agrees.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Wednesday 20 June 1838

5 10

10

Damp rainy disagreeable morning – Off from Paris (hotel de la Terrasse, r. de Rivoli, tenu par Madame Vivienne Lemoyne – Drouet gone 2 or 3 years ago having fait mauvaises affaires) Off from Paris at 6 40 – changed horses at Sèvre and at 8 7 alighted to breakfast à l’hotel de Rennes about opposite the post at Versailles – wish we had come here before for civil people – a good enough little room to breakfast in (waited 20 minutes) and a little room close by that just suited us – 2 baskets strawberries 4/. + breakfast 4/. + garcon ./50 very well for Versailles – our servants began on board wages at 4/. a day each – George said he would do just as I liked – could not live as Josephine did – I said he might change – and give up the board wages whenever he liked – En route again again at 9 ¾ - very small recollection of the

Coignières small good village

Épernon picturesque little place

Off from Maintenon at 3 pm

road to Rambouillet – no peep at the old chateau – we had hardly got 200 or 300 yards out of Épernon when the ole-end came off – tied it on and fastened our volet as well as we could –

Maintenon picturesque little town – from the bridge leading out of it nice view of the nice old chateau (in its chapel Louis XIV married Madame de M-) and along the little river thro’ the tall arches of Louis 14ths’ ruined or never finished aqueduct – at 3 ½ 1st view of the cathedral of

at Chartres at 4 35 Hotel de la Poste

Chartres and its 2 tall sharp pointed [?] – alight at la poste near the boulevard in a large place on the highest ground of and at one extremity of the town, where seem to be all the Inns (one looking as good as another) – all Diligence houses – the cathedral at not great distance – go across the Place, and past the little theatre and at the cathedral at 5 10 not aware it was disroofed by fire in 1836 by the negligence of a plumber, whose fire-pan set fire to wood-roof where it was standing, and, the wind being strong, the whole of the Spanish chesnut wood charpente was consumed in ½ hour – midway the nave (north side) is a sort of tribune or large pew containing 2 or 3 long benches with backs to them – opposite the pulpit – and over this tribune fixed against the great pillar is a very well carved oak pannel (done by a menuisier of Chartres) representing the virgin holding down at the right foot the devil in chain, and her left a kneeling angel praying to her for help – the cathedral is carved in the distance behind her, and little angels are hovering round her in the clouds – below this piece of excellent model carving (just finished) is the following inscription on a black marble slab also fixed against the pillar

Daemonem in hanc aedem sacram flammas

Jamque per turres et tabulate horrifice debacchatum ejaculantem

Maria, injecto fraeno, coercet. Angelus, urbis custos, ut sibi liceat

illam contra ignes tutari à virgine rogat, annuitque Deipara.

Misericordiae Domini quia non sumus consumpti.

Thren. c.3. v. 22.

Praedictum incendium accidit die iv Juine MDCCCXXXVI

the nave of this cathedral said to be so dark, one cannot see to read by daylight except by a very strong light – the painted windows are certainly very dark – very much dark colour particularly blue – but yet I can see to write my pencil notes at this hour 5 ½ p,. and do not dislike the sombre aspect of the church interior – the screen is much admired – that fronting the nave tho’ the figures may be good is too solid – too white (marble I suppose) too  much a blocus – one can only see into the choir thro’ the grille of the gate – but the old gothic [tinte]-darkened white marble de Carrara round the side and back of the choir, is very beautiful – in the style of the York minster screen – the figures in very high relief – representing divers scenes in the life of our Saviour and............... it was here that St. Bernard preached the 2nd crusade in 1145. – the organ is perched up in the nave over the top of the 2nd arch (south side) from the transept – blocks one of the large windows – only one aisle on each side the nave – east and an apse croisée – aisled round as usual – had the sacristan who shewed us the eglise souterraine – it goes all under the present church  - 15ft. French deep – 30 steps down – here we sat lying the lead of the roof [?] into sand, [cross] footing like white gritty sand in 2 great heaps – very handsome church but not to be compared with Reims – great many workmen getting up and fixing the new iron charpente stood some minutes by 2 workmen in one of the west towers getting up 2 great stone pulled by a windless worked at the top – could not imagine the use of a pile of common red hollow pot cylinders about 14 or 16 or 18? in. long? the closing on one end being like a thin square plate about 1in. thick to arch with a new plan from Paris – foe fear of common stone work being too heavy – the interstices to be filled up with plâtre – Inquire about this in Paris – dinner at 7 5 – sat leaning sometime on the bed ½ asleep – had Josephine – at 8 ½ - rainy day till about 5 pm afterwards pretty fine

[derpyfins]

derpyfins gothic

You are given a pumpkin balloon for your birthday.  It moves around the house under its own power.  It hasn’t figured out how to come upstairs yet.

You have removed the clutter from your house in anticipation of houseguests. You stare at all the space you always had but had forgotten about.  You wonder if the tradeoff is worth it.

The bird coughs softly.  Birds can’t cough.  It is your cough she is mimicking.

You ask Cortana to turn on the Christmas tree.  She says she can’t do that, but she is still learning.

You keep sending checks to the landscaping company.  They have not ever cashed them.

The robocall: IN THE PAST TWENTY FOUR HOURS NO PATIENTS HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19. NO PATIENTS HAVE EXPIRED FROM COVID-19. ONE STAFF MEMBER HAS TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19.  THEY HAVE BEEN FURLOUGHED. 

You try to romanticize the white streak in your hair - it is touched by starlight.  You try not to think about Type II supernovas.

P-- A-- sends you a reminder.  You have a call with them in one hour and fifty two minutes.  

P-- A-- sends you a reminder.  You have a call with them in forty seven minutes.  The countdown is starting to make you nervous.

All of the faucets started leaking at the same time.  No plumbers will answer your calls. 

The Christmas decorations are up, but you can’t bring yourself to get rid of the pumpkin balloon. 

You ask Cortana to turn off the table lamp.  She says she can’t do that, but she is still learning.

The robocall: IN THE PAST TWENTY FOUR HOURS NO PATIENTS HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19. NO PATIENTS HAVE EXPIRED FROM COVID-19. NO STAFF MEMBERS HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19. 

You are haunted by the sound of weeping and wailing.  You don’t know where it is coming from.  It is coming from your phone.  You are not sure if knowing makes this better or worse.

The bird has learned a bosun’s whistle.  You can hear her from outside the house as you take out the trash in a dense fog.

The car makes a new and exciting noise.  You pull over next to Central Park and let buses and horses go around you, wondering what to do.

The house on the other side of the woods has put up very bright Christmas lights.  You didn’t know there was a house there.

P-- A-- sends you a reminder. You have a call with them in seven minutes.

The robocall: IN THE PAST TWENTY FOUR HOURS FIVE PATIENTS HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19. NO PATIENTS HAVE EXPIRED FROM COVID-19. TWO STAFF MEMBERS HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19.  THEY HAVE BEEN FURLOUGHED. PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO VISIT THE RESIDENTS.

There are so many phones in this room.  One of them is always ringing.  You do not now how to stop it. 

If you get up to pee, you are going to miss this call with P-- A--, and all will be lost.

A friend likes to video chat while she runs on her lunch break.  You are jealous.  You have not left this chair for eight months.

The plants beep for their food.  They beep for their water.  There is no escaping the beeping.

P-- A-- calls.  They schedule the next call.  You immediately get a reminder.

Cortana tells a joke.  No one has asked her to tell a joke.  There is no one in the living room with her except for the pumpkin balloon. 

The robocall:  IN THE PAST TWENTY FOUR HOURS TWO PATIENTS HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19. NO PATIENTS HAVE EXPIRED FROM COVID-19. NO STAFF MEMBERS HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR COVID-19.

You’ve started to watch the Animaniacs reboot.  You didn’t expect to see your existential dread and sorrow reflected back at you in cartoon form.

The phones are still ringing.  The bird rings with them.

There is no food in the house.

There is so much food in the house.

[cartercaudio]

Any other project you’re working on putting out right now?

oh yeah absolutely! currently the stuff I am working on is

carter c EP #2 (not really sure what the name is but it’ll introduce a new sona)

a new EP under “imaginary best friend”

+ eventually a record under “imaginary best friend”

the AMAXITES album

a skramz indie song w/ geronimostilton (check them out)

producing a boxhead album

as well as a whole list of plumbers incorporated stuff

ALIEN (comes out february 20th)

gothic inc

plumbergate (tribute to eli applegate)

as well as plumbers incorporated 2

besides that there’s not much. a remix of my song “star cluster” featuring ewren is coming out march 12th, but that’s what is planned for release right now.

thanks 4 asking!

[bigsnzstanacct]

D/ream Da/ddy SnzFic D*mien 1

I wrote a DD sneeze fic. I wanted to do a date each with all the dads and I may yet get to it but idk, I feel like I’d have to replay the game to get the style down again.Anyway!

Fyi His name is Cary… because that’s as close to “character” as I could get with a real name. Actually he uses a first initial. P. Cary. (The P is for player.) (Maybe the name is why he has daddy issues?) (dream daddy issues *eyebrows*).

Also Amanda is the Player Character’s daughter. That’s probably the only info you need if you don’t watch the show.

— Damien 1

I awkwardly fidget with my clothes. That’s what you do right, before you walk into your weirdly hot neighbor’s giant Gothic house? Right? Before you talk to your neighbor who walks around every day in a cape and waistcoat, and yells at Dead, Bath, and Beyond employees for insufficiently Victorian clothing, and could probably out vampire Brad Pitt in that Brad-Pitt-is-a-Sexy-Vampire movie… before you walk into his house, you fidget, right? That’s definitely normal. I’m sure it’s normal. Positive. Even if you are well-dressed, even if for whatever reason you put on your navy suit, even combed your hair into something approaching presentable, and if you happen to have worn the tight suit pants that show off the results of your squats well, that didn’t make things weird, right? Just one Dad visiting another Dad’s house, no ulterior motives here, no matter how single and attractive the Dads are—or at least one of the Dads are, and—

And all of a sudden there’s a crash of thunder, which came out of nowhere I swear, and then he door is open and there he is…

“Oh, hello, Cary. Delighted to have you.”

It’s an imposing sight. Damien standing there, in front of his big, scary, weirdly beautiful house, tall, lithe, pale, right on the edge of gaunt. Tall black doorframe towering over him, that waistcoat accentuating his tight, grab-able waist, the cape emphasizing his broad shoulders… the hard ridge of his jaw, the cascade of his hair. And those eyes. Purple eyes. That must be color contacts, right?

“Uh, Cary?”

OH THAT’S RIGHT I HAVE TO TALK.

“H-hey Damien! I, uh, thanks for… is there always a clap of thunder when you open the door?”

My dumb mouth.

“Usually.” Damien responds. I almost say something but then… I see the twinkle in his eyes.

“You’re… messing with me!” I exclaim, exasperated.

“Of course I am, didn’t you read the weather forecast? There’s supposed to be sporadic storms all day today. Lucky you came in before…”

And then it’s as if the whole sky opened up, because there’s a downpour out of nowhere and I have to sprint up the stairs and into this house before I get drenched. “H-heh, missed it by an inch, huh?”

I take in the house. It’s large, imposing… yes, creepy for sure but… also… really impressive. Full of oil paintings that ought to be full on Scooby-Doo terrifying, but… nope. They’re weirdly inviting, below the thin veneer of terror they inspire. Sort of like Damien himself.

“Might I interest you in a tour of the premises?” Damien asks, shocking me out of my reverie. Amanda told me I had to talk, and here I am, in Damien’s house, staring and not talking. Great job, Cary. I nod, apparently under the desire to convince Damien that I’m mute. Luckily, he loves talking about his house, and fills the silence much better than I could. I like that in a man. Good at talking. Definitely on my top ten qualities. “I’d love to show you…” Damien says, “well… a bit of a surprise, but. You’ll just have to stay for tea, until the rain clears up, I simply must show you… well, first, my bedroom. Not um,” he pinks up. The blush looks good on his pale skin. Can he hide anything from people? “Not to be… forward in any… it’s just, the best painting’s there. And I thought you might want to see. It’s an authentic 19th century painting, based on a scene from Tennyson, one of his dialogues, and it seemed like you liked the other paintings. Nothing more, of course.”

I’m pretty sure he’s walking a little faster now, and I bet if I wasn’t behind him I’d see that adorable blush again. Too bad the cape blocks the view of his ass… Geez, I have sex on the brain. I need to get laid. Or maybe it’s just spending time with all these guys… how is it that every single dad on this block is hot? And most of them are single! It’s almost like somebody planned it.

Damien shows me the painting, which, yes, I love it. And somewhere between the painting, and the library, and the fanfiction—don’t lie to me Damien, I know a slashfic when I see one—and the butterflies and the tea… I start having fun. I start having a lot of fun actually. I finally regain the use of my mouth, so I can actually talk, and once I’m talking we’re having a great conversation! The whole Victorian thing isn’t Damien’s whole personality or anything, it’s just something he really likes. And there’s something really charming about having a hobby he’s so passionate about. I wish I had any hobbies I was passionate about, besides of course the niceties of lawncare. And puns. I am passionate about puns. I’m a Dad, after all.

“…and it’s finally cleared up so… I can show you the last thing!” Damien says, excitedly. “If you’d like? I haven’t taken up too much of your time? I of course have the greatest deference for the leisure time of my houseguests, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m expecting you to bestow your entire afternoon upon me.”

“Oh, Damien, I’d love to bestow my afternoon on you.” Why does that sound vaguely dirty? “Lead the way!”

And so lead the way he does, walking me out into… oh no.

Well, not just oh no. It is beautiful. It’s gorgeous, it’s a whole garden of what seems like every single kind of flower in the world, it’s absolutely incredible. It’s just my allergies, and more than my allergies it’s…

“Oh no, you don’t like it. I… usually this is the part they like best, but… we can go back in if you…”

“No, no!” I interrupt, my voice blessedly free of the taint of allergic urge… for the moment. “No, we don’t need to go back in, I really like it here this is… this is incredible, Damien! I was just…” I rub at my nose quickly, hoping against hope that it won’t betray me again but… my nose always betrays me. My nose is my nemesis. Or at least the nemesis of me looking cool. Or sounding like a human, instead of—what did ‘Manda call me?—a fifty-foot-tall moose monster slash air cannon with a side of a large lion-type animal purring, weirdly?—Oh. Damien’s staring. I’m doing that not-talking thing again. “I was just taking a moment to take it all in, that’s all.” I say, all in a rush. For a second doubt flickered in his eyes, but Damien seemed to buy my explanation for the moment so all’s clear on the western front. For now.

Things go surprisingly well. Damien’s telling me what all the different flowers mean, and how the Victorians used flowers to express the feelings they were too awkward to express with words, and honestly that sounds pretty excellent to me. I manage to pull out that knowledge of flowers I gained once from watching a history channel special while half asleep, which seems to impress Damien (3AM History Channel to the rescue once again!). And Damien’s telling me all about how he put together a bouquet to express “I feel slight regret at having mistaken you for a human being when you are in fact a rotting skunk carcass in a suit and an Edwardian monocle,” when I felt…

IT.

Oh no. Oh no. IT was coming. I felt it. It was already too late. I felt it taking me over, rooting itself in my toes, radiating out from the tips of my nostrils to send a shiver down my spine, taking control of every ounce of strength in my body, stretching my mouth like loading a cannon, shutting my eyes as I shook my head, faintly protesting against the all-consuming power taking hold of me. It was coming. It was inevitable. It was unstoppable.

I was about to Dad Sneeze.

I remembered the day it came over me. I had been on guard for it. I had been vigilant. I had declared: I wasn’t going to fall prey. I might not be a cool dad. I could embrace the finer details of tree-pruning. I could expertly attempt to fix sinks, call the plumber, and have the whole thing fixed before Amanda or her mom got home. I loved Dad puns. But I was not going to be a Dad Sneeze Dad. No way. No how. It wasn’t going to get me…

I was on a date with Amanda’s mom when it struck. I was’t event trying to be a Dad then! I was being a Cool Guy Who Happened To Be Married And Have A Kid. I was going to get laid that night. (I still did. *wink*) I was just getting into the precise details of the color my steak should be on the inside when an urge came over me like none I’d ever felt before, and urge that was utterly beyond my control. Before I even knew what was happening, my face was exploding with a sound that terrified even me, let alone how the roar terrified half of the patrons of the very swanky restaurant I was treating my wife to (that I also, purely incidentally, happened to have a coupon for.) I was worried in the aftermath that a) I no longer had a face because I’d blown it off in the sneeze, or b) we’d be kicked out of Chez Frenchtaliano Surf and Turf. (A) wasn’t the case, but (B) was a near thing.

My Dad Sneezes had gotten worse since then.

But there was nothing to do, and as long as I’d managed to forestall it, among all these flowers? It was going to be a Dad Sneeze for the ages. I hitched, I gasped, I wheezed. I caught Damien’s terrified expression through shutterclicks as my eyes fluttered, and my head tipped back, and the feeling reached it’s apex and…

“HHHAARRRRRRRRRSSCCHHHHHHHOOOPPPPPFFFAAAGRRLLL!!!”

A ridiculous, thunderous, earth-shaking, category 9 Dad Sneeze exploded from my face.

My eyes stayed closed a moment after the sneeze, as I enjoyed the wash of euphoria that came over me after every monstrous sneeze, the momentary afterglow before I had to face the crowd I’d terrified. I sheepishly opened my eyes, half-afraid I’d blown down half Damien’s garden to find…

Damien’s eyes closing, his eyebrows going up, up, up, mouth falling open, the architecture of his nostrils flaring and twitching towards a…

“WWWWHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAASSCCHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!”

Have you ever thought about what a vampire would sound like if it roared? That’s what Damien sneezing sounds like. Not a match for my own, it would probably only terrify three, four mallgoers on the outside (my record is roughly twenty-three; it had come on suddenly and I was in the middle of frantic Christmas Week Unprepared Single Dad Shopping), but a true Dad Sneeze nonetheless. I have to give the man his respect.

“Well! Excuse me!” Damien exclaims, giggling a bit. “I’m so sorry, I’ve just… did you know the Victorians were the first to identify the phenomenon of ‘sympathetic sneezing’?”

I can’t help but smile. There’s nothing to make you feel like you didn’t ruin a date neighborly hangout in a lovely Victorian garden with your galumphing sinuses than an equally (well, not quite equally) calamitous nasal eruption immediately following.

“Nice sneeze.” I say, raising my hand for a high five.

“Nice sneeze,” Damien responds, aiming for the elbow with flawless technique. Did the Victorians high-five? “Shall we… adjourn to the indoors, or…”

He seems almost hesitant to go inside, and to be honest so am I. As long as he’s cool with putting up with my…

“I mean, as long as you’re cool with putting up with my…” I say, miming the Sneeze of Doom I’d just unleashed.

“As long as you won’t mind my echoing call. We shall resound through the garden together! Now, have I explained to about the white crocus?”

“N-nuhh… you h-have… h-haveehhhhh… ehhHHH… EEEEHHHHTTTRRRRUUUSSSSCCCCHHHHHKKKKKKBBBBP!”

“WWWHHHHHEEEEYYYYYYYSSSHHHHHAAAAAAAA!!”