#roman mysteries 4

[semper-legens]

114. The Pirates of Pompeii, by Caroline Lawrence

Owned: Yes Page count: 190 My summary: The eruption of Vesuvius was a few weeks ago, and the survivors try to come to terms with the disaster. Jonathan is still in a coma, passed out from the sulphur fumes, and his friends try desperately to wake him up. But more trouble is afoot in the refugee camp. Children are going missing, and there are hints that a man named the Patron is involved. But can the kids find the culprit and rescue the children before disaster strikes? My rating: 4/5

Back to the Roman Mysteries, and the aftermath of the volcano! Vesuvius has erupted, sending everything into chaos. The actual eruption is over now, but the area around the volcano is covered in ash, and many people have died or gone missing. I've said this a couple of times, but one of the things I really admire about the Roman Mysteries as an adult is how mature it is. It doesn't shy away from more complex topics, but approaches them in a way that is appropriate to the target demographic and understandable to them. Pirates of Pompeii starts to deal with a few heavy subjects, such as the destruction after the eruption, children being kidnapped into slavery, the life of someone who is enslaved, and the grief experienced by people who have survived a major traumatic event. But it does so in a way that an eight year old would understand it, if not necessarily perceive its darker edges. It's a really thin tightrope to walk, but the series balances it beautifully.

We're starting to get into the run where each book focuses on a different main character, and this book's star is Nubia. Lost in the ashen world of post-eruption Pompeii, she comes across a man, Kuanto, from her home country - he claims to be an escaped slave and says he can help her escape. As part of their investigations into who is stealing the children, the gang stay at the villa of Publius Pollius Felix, a high-class man with a daughter Flavia's age, Polla Pulchra. Pulchra is rude, snobby, and treats her personal slave, Leda, awfully. The thing is that Flavia, susceptible to peer pressure, starts to treat Nubia the same way, as a slave and not a friend, and Nubia understandably is upset by this. So she leaves to find Kuanto. This is the first book where we really get to see through Nubia's eyes for an extended time, and it's an interesting sight. Nubia's big strength is that she's empathetic and a lot more mature and emotionally intelligent than all of the others, so seeing her both have her heart broken by Flavia's neglect and be manipulated by Kuanto exposes a major problem for her - she feels too much. Nonetheless, this exploration of her character - the songs she learned from her family, the losses she's had over the years, the revelation of her real name - is very welcome and makes for a solid backbone of this story.

The kids are refugees of the volcano, temporarily homeless and living in tents. Though they manage to score an invitation to Felix's villa reasonably early on, I think this book does a good job of showing the chaos of the refugee camp and the utter despair and desperation of the now-homeless refugees. And while Kuanto turns out to not be honest about who he is, the other runaway slaves that Nubia meets are very sympathetically portrayed and admirable in themselves. We've spent two books in the middle stratum of Roman existence; now, we see that social order disrupted and the ugly truths that run through the heart of their society. Emperor Titus also makes his first appearance - he's visiting Pompeii after the volcano and promising to help the people displaced by it, even if he has to reach into his own pockets. He's going to become more significant later, but for now, we get a quick rundown of both of Titus' faces: he's benevolent to the survivors, but Mordecai disappears for his visit to avoid seeing him because of the destruction he wrought in Jerusalem ten years prior. Capable of generosity, capable of violence. Just like a king.

The main plot is to do with the kidnap of freeborn children to be sold as slaves - in the chaos after the volcano, it can be presumed that the children just went missing. I've spoken before about how it's interesting that Ancient Roman moral standards are applied here: the characters are outraged that it's freeborn Romans being kidnapped, not that slavery is an evil in and of itself. The series is also not subtle about the physical dangers slavery entailed. Flavia, Jonathan, and Pulchra are beaten for standing up to the kidnappers, and we see Leda after Pulchra beat her and made her lock herself in a chest earlier in the book. Similarly, the book is explicit that if Nubia is caught as a runaway, she would be crucified. It's not too gory or too intense about it, but it's very matter-of-fact about the material realities of living in this world, which I find intriguing in a series intended for middle grade audiences.

Next, eternal pessimist Jonathan finds something to really be miserable about.

[andromedasummer]

sudden flashbacks to childhood as i remember the first book series i ever loved, Roman Mysteries. which in retrospect. has a lot. a lot. a LOT of issues

[haedalkoo]

I Love You (I'm Sorry)

I'm feeling emo today, so let's talk about this tweet.

This is my roman empire. For many Jikookers, too. But I feel like there's a slight mistranslation that always gets passed around and we sort of lose the actual meaning behind the tweet when, in reality, there's no reason to be ommiting words. JK's message is still as lovely, but let's revisit it, shall we?

For context, the translation I always see says: (...) you know my heart, you are me I am you. No matter how much I think over*, I love you.

Tweet text: Happy birthday Jiminie-hyung! (formal) and I'm sorry ❤️ (said cutely)

#JiminHappyBirthday #I'mReallySorry #Sorry #OnceAgainI'mSorry #IKnowYouLookCoolWhateverYouDoButI'mSorry (1) #ItSeemsYou'reStillSleepingI'mSorry #YouKnowHowIFeelRight? (2) I'mSorry #YouAreMeIAmVerySorry (3) #IHadToDoItForTheSakeOfLaughterI'mSorry (4) #NoMatterHowMuchIThinkItOverThePictureIsPerfectI'mSorry* #ILoveYou

(1) The subject of who knows Jimin is cool is not very clear here, I've gone for *I* because JK is the one writing it and posting the 'ugly' picture. 'Cool' in Korean is often used to compliment a man, and it tends to mean that he's handsome. At least in my personal experience, whenever it was used was when a guy was looking good or had a bit of a 'cool and mysterious' vibe.

(2) You know my heart is a direct translation, but I find that what JK means is "you know my intentions, right?" As if saying, I'm not posting this to make fun of you, it's because it was so funny I couldn't help it.

(3) Edit! As someone very kindly pointed out, JK's 'You are me I am you' has a bit of a funny twist. He wrote 너는 나 나는 너무 미안해. 너 (/neo/) means "you", but 너무 (/neomu/) means 'very.' It's a silly play on words, but also very smart 💗

(4) A more direct translation (but wordier) would be: it was an inevitable decision made for the sake of laughter. 어쩔수없다 is 'can't be helped' or 'there's nothing you can do', 'inevitable'.

*The translation that always goes around ommits the last bit and it annoys me, so, so much. He says no matter how much I think about THE PICTURE, it is perfect (I'm sorry, I had to post it.)

Full text without "I'm sorry":

I know you look cool no matter what you do. I think you're still sleeping. You know how I feel, right? You are me I am you. I had to do it for the sake of laughter, the picture is perfect no matter how much I think it over. I love you.

So, yeah, it's a little different from no matter how much I think it over, I love you. But it's still so heartbreakingly sweet and funny. He took those pictures of Jimin without him knowing, saved them in his gallery for months, probably, and then posted them without Jimin's knowledge again to give him and armys a cute, funny surprise. Jungkook finds Jimin so cute and funny. He feels bad whenever he's teasing him a little (he's so gentle with him, most times I find that it's only with him.) He thinks he's cool no matter what he does. He loves him, he loves him!

Isn't he sweet?

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 1)

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

​GIF: Originally posted by @tavners

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Home invasion. Voyeurism. Implied masturbation. Dream manipulation.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Wow, this took way longer to finish than I had originally planned. My head's been all over the place with trying (and thus far failing) to find a new job. The themes are very different to what I've written before; I hope it reads okay. Please let me know what you think. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

Fate.

A phenomenon that governed every particle of matter within the known universe and even those beyond.

Some considered it a comforting concept that excused them from the burden of decision making, citing: "I'll leave it up to fate." For others the phrase was a cursory, throw-away comment or a romantic line they heard in the lyrics of a song.

The real truth of the matter was that Fate was a trio of immortal beings, goddesses, with sight so potent that they knew the past, present and future of every individual to have lived. The mythology of the Greeks, Romans and Norse hadn't been too far off with their stories of the Moirai, Parcae and Norns but of course, no humans really believed there to be any realism in myths. They were just stories. It didn't matter either way; they existed and had influence regardless of what the majority believed.

For beings such as The Endless siblings, the presence of Fate in the cosmos was not only real, but also something that affected even themselves.

For the King of Dreams, an eventuality had been prophesised long ago by The Kindly Ones that spoke of a bond that was to be forged between himself and a mortal.

Lord Morpheus, in his pride, had tried to be above such a foretelling, even questioning its validity because the notion of a mortal accepting his version of the universe seemed wholly implausible.

But he could not truly stop himself from wondering about you, reaching out to see if he could feel your presence in the minds of the dreamers he hosted.

It wasn't something he indulged in with frequency. More of a once-in a-decade interval. Enough to appease his curiosity.

Of course, this was put on hold during his imprisonment at Fawney Rig.

Morpheus had had much to contemplate during this period. The damage his absence caused to the collective subconscious, the decay of his realm, the loss of freedom and dignity. There was also a chance that you had been born and died in the 106 years he spent in captivity.

What if he was too late and had lost the chance of discovering who you were?

It was a nauseating prospect that scraped and scratched a space deep within his being; bleeding him of his remaining stores of hope that were so significantly depleted after the death of beloved Jessamy.

Despite the nasty emotional wound, finding you was a charge that he assigned at the end of his priorities after his escape.

Recovering his scattered tools, restoring the Dreaming, locating his absent creations, unravelling the mystery of Rose Walker and confronting Desire all had needed to come first.

The latter interaction had left Morpheus with a seething rage that was currently propelling him down the boards of the dock that sit above the Ocean of Dreams.

The dense mist in the air is buffeted by his movements and the only sounds are the tread of boots, the creak of wooden slats and the lap of water.

With each step, the liquid becomes choppier as it reacts to its master's mood and by the time he has reached the end of the dock, the surface of the water roils fervorously, completely in line with Morpheus' dangerous temperament.

The words of Desire's final silken-toned taunt echo in his mind with grating persistence.

"Oh, poor Dream. I really got under your skin this time, didn't I?"

He is loathe to admit there is truth in the question.

There are moments where Morpheus ponders the turn that the relationship between them has taken. How Desire went from being his favourite sibling to someone one shade shy of an adversary. Their faultless adeptness at provoking his temper and manipulating the events that encircle him would be impressive if not for the danger posed to humanity.

The agitated water eventually draws focus to how out of control he and his emotions have become. Morpheus knows he must get them in check, and quickly, for he knows the consequences all too well should he ignore it.

He clenches his fist and swallows it all down, pushing it deep inside his belly until the crackling entropy of the anger is fully dispelled.

Morpheus then sweeps his coat out behind him as he sinks lithely into a crouch. Trepidation nips at his heart and tugs his attention to a sobering thought.

This foray into the water may be fruitless.

You may be long gone and there would be no way of ever knowing you.

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath; he has run out of excuses to not look, even if he is afraid of the outcome.

Long, delicate fingers dapple the surface of the inky ocean. The waves still at the touch, obedient to him with instancy.

He repositions to full height and reaches into his coat to find the pouch of sand stashed in the pocket. A handful of twinkling grains slip off his palm into the ocean, lighting the water it touches to a luminous green.

"Find my soulmate," Morpheus commands silently.

The intention is set. He steps off the dock into the water.

At first, like every other prior attempt, there is no sign of you. Morpheus floats submerged in the tepid liquid, filtering through the hubbub of countless other dreams and nightmares.

Then there is a pull.

It is faint yet indisputable. Warmth explodes in his chest and he groans inwardly from the delicious sensation of relief.

You are alive, and you are dreaming.

A path of radiance appears in the water, a line that shows your connection, and provides a location for him to hone in on.

Morpheus dives deeper without hesitation.

As he reaches the edge of your subconscious, he rejoices that he got a handle on his emotions. He wouldn't want your first perception of him to be one tinged with rage, however unaware you were of him, with your soulmate being the source.

He hesitates for a moment before entering the dream you are in and is somewhat taken aback by what he finds.

A room comprising of four blank walls, a floor, a ceiling and a door. There is but one other feature; a window, and its view is as non-descript and inoffensive as the internal space.

You stand by said window, head turned from him.

Despite being unable to see your face, he sees your anxiety with immediacy. It is an aura hovering about your body, being sucked into your lungs with every fast-paced breath.

You begin to throw glances towards the door. Morpheus filters through the layers of the dream. No one is scheduled to come across the threshold.

The more he observes, the more questions arise in Morpheus' mind.

What was making you so affected? What were you expecting to happen?

There's nothing in the scene that is intended to be unpleasant yet you are reacting in a way that most observers would characterise as unsettled.

Morpheus, despite not yet knowing you, doesn't like to see you this way. His dominant instinct is to end the dream but he quashes the desire to review the bigger picture.

The empty room dream was symbolic of a beginning.

It clicks into place.

What you were feeling, even if on a purely instinctual level, was the anticipation of meeting your soulmate and starting your new life.

Morpheus steps into the frame, just a couple of paces behind you.

You feel his presence instantly, eyes full to the brim with tears as you whirl around with a soft gasp.

You see him.

The tears spill and patter onto the white floor.

Morpheus reaches out, overcome by his need to provide comfort.

You disappear.

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

Morpheus is sat on his throne. He pores over the book he had located in the Dreaming's library a little over a week ago that contains the details of your life. It is something he has taken to doing when the impatience of waiting for you to fall asleep becomes too keen.

Your subconscious has him enraptured, watching it every night as if it is a stage show. Each dream he delves into is like the tug of fingers on a loose thread, your psyche has begun to unravel before him.

Everything from whims to cravings, hopes to fears. Your temperament, the things that delight and irk you. What drives you and demotivates you. He consumes it all with an insatiable hunger.

Based on the projection of yourself that he sees, there is no doubt that he is attracted to you.

All that prior haughty disregard for the Fates' prophecy has been cast aside like a negative thought in a meditation session. Morpheus is a romantic. A believer. He is ashamed to have even doubted your coming.

He wonders if it would vex Desire to learn of him finding his soulmate and by extension, the prospect of companionship, perhaps even physical intimacy or love.

It is all too easy to imagine the sickly sweet grin they would smile at him, shown to be fake by the almost imperceptible contempt glinting in their golden eyes.

Would his triumph drive them to distraction?

It is this smug sentiment that spurs his next decision. He wants more. The next logical step is to find you in the waking world.

He rises from his throne, a sure hand ready to bring forth his pouch of sand when he falters.

Tears pool in his eyes.

His mind is suddenly marred with the memories of what happened in 1916. The agony, mortification and rage that followed. He couldn't go through that kind of treatment ever again and the waking world expanded the risk of it transpiring.

"No," he says resolutely. His sadness turns to resolve, the hard line of his grimace matching those set in his brows.

He will not let the actions of a group of mortals dissuade him from going to you. And besides, he has researched everything he can about you from within the safety of the Dreaming.

He takes a measure of sand and uses it to materialise within your bedroom.

It is obvious from a quick scan of it that deliberate attempts have been made to ensure the space is cosy and calming.

Two marshmallowy pillows support your head. The cotton sheets have been meticulously tucked to avoid drafts. A lavender reed diffuser fragrances the air with a subtle scent. There are no devices or screens visible.

Everything has its place. A coaster supported glass of water within reaching distance. Touch activated lamp in case of emergency. The diary lined up with the back left corner of the bedside table, pen placed parallel in the spine dent. All clothes are in the wardrobe or stashed in the laundry basket.

Morpheus moves to the curtain-shrouded window and delicately moves the dark, heavy fabric to catch a glimpse of the outside world.

The scene is sepia stained from an old streetlight positioned right outside your home. It explained the choice of curtains.

You stir slightly from the change in environment and Morpheus allows the curtain to fall back in place. He remains stationary until your breathing returns to its previous pace. It is imperative that his presence remains undisclosed. He knows that mortals do not take well to home invasion.

Then, your right hand slips out from the duvet cocoon revealing a cushion cut ruby ring on your middle finger.

He smiles exultantly. The similarity between the jewel and his own now-destroyed dreamstone was undeniable.

The Fates were making it transparent.

You were the one.

Morpheus approaches the side of your bed now. In your momentary discomfort, you had moved your head, making your whole face visible to your uninvited guest.

He bends gracefully so his face is closer to yours and observes you with an intent fascination.

Even in the gloom, Morpheus asserts that your features are even more captivating now that he is able to look upon them in person and is certain that if he could guarantee an absence of fear then he would fall to knees and worship you right there.

Fingers stroke a lock of hair splayed across the pillow and his thoughts turn darker still, imagining what he would do with you if he could get you alone in the Dreaming. How he would seduce you with words, and then pleasure your body with his own until you were senseless.

Getting you there would be so easy, all he needed to do was move his hand up and touch your skin and -

Morpheus stops himself, deciding that now is not the time for an introduction. He will wait until tomorrow. You need to rest. It will be quite the revelation for your sweet mortal heart.

Morpheus whispers a promise, "We will be together soon, my precious soulmate."

He leaves after taking one last look at your peaceful form.

When he returns to the Dreaming, Morpheus discovers that the visit has riled him way beyond what he thought possible.

It was supposed to sate his curiosity and answer some questions.

It has done the opposite.

His craving for you is sublimely intense, opiate-like in its ensnarement.

He needs to possess you. To have you all to himself. Everything would fall into place. Loneliness, disillusionment, jealousy; they would never darken his outlook again. You would heal him, he is certain of it.

He paces restlessly in the low light of his private chambers as heat ripples beneath the surface of his being, charging him with pure sexual lust.

He hungers for the moment when you feel the same about him.

For now, all he can do is stand and touch himself while thinking of your face, an act that has been carried out repeatedly in the days since he found you in the Ocean of Dreams.

An erotic idea enters his mind.

Your subconscious is still in the Dreaming; he knows the feeling of it intimately.

Perhaps he could bring you a dream mirroring his own current fantasy.

To give you a taste of what was to come.

A gift that only he could bestow.

The mere thought of it turns him on even more. His back arches and his eyes roll back as he choses the words through which he would deliver the offering.

"Dream of me," Morpheus murmurs breathlessly. "Dream of me."

He repeats the phrase until he is unable to continue, moans taking over the darkened space around him.

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

It is dusk the next day when Morpheus returns to the waking world.

The instant he touches down on the Earth's surface, he knows exactly where to go. The metaphysical connection between you is as strong as the energy pulsing through a ley line.

The city he is directed to is thrumming with life but the side street he stands in has been spared from the furore.

It is fortuitous that he is permitted to be unobserved for Morpheus is struggling now with the urge to get closer.

Providence is pulling him in and also locking him out.

He walks up to the door and then an invisible force makes him back away.

He doesn't even try to fight it.

The Fates hold all the cards. Morpheus is beholden to their each and every whim.

It is surprisingly liberating.

He is dancing in the cross hairs. Blinkered by the tie the universe has fashioned for you.

All he has to do is wait.

The door to the building is pushed open.

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

Taglist: @herfantasyworldd

"Fate. Up against your will. Through the thick and thin. He will wait until you give yourself to him."

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The Rift Masterlist

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Marcus Pike x Marcus Acacius x Reader

Rating: E (Explicit smut, 18+ only)

Warnings: Time Travel Nonsense, foursome dynamics (M/M/M/F), lots of mlm action, so if that's not your thing... I'm not really sure what you're doing here. More warnings will be listed under individual chapter headings.

Summary:

Marcus Moreno and the Heroics managed to contain the detonation of a supervillain's black hole bomb in the middle of Washington, DC, but the energy blast created a mysterious crack in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. Scientists are calling it a rift in time and space. Marcus Moreno calls it a logistical security nightmare.

Several weeks after the Rift opens, unusually well-preserved ancient Roman artifacts begin to flood the black market, inundating Special Agent Marcus Pike's team with work. He enlists you, a Classical Archaeologist with a focus on Imperial Roman art and a curator at the National Gallery of Art, to assist his team in identifying the growing pile of smuggled artifacts.

Despite the Heroics' desperate attempts to close the Rift, it's only a matter of time before something much larger than gold coins makes its way through the crack in spacetime and onto the streets of DC...

Or:

Three people named Marcus are smooshed together into the same space.

A/N: @leslie-lyman said, "I want all three Marcuses at the same time but also that would be a nightmare to write." I laughed, trying to imagine how on earth someone would bring together a superhero, an FBI Agent, and Roman General. And then I kept thinking about it. And then this entire story happened. Thank you, dear Les for the idea and for egging me on as always. <3 Thank you also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who beta'd this entire work, listened to me scream about it in her DMs at all hours, and most importantly, who never gave up on me when I was convinced that my brain was out of stories.

Table of Contents

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6** Chapter 7 Chapter 8** Chapter 9 Epilogue**

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part one

authors note: well, i got some type of writers block working on two other RR wip's so opened a new google doc and ended up with this. prob gonna be 3 parts, maybe 4. there's an almost five year time jump after this one, can you guess why? also, joe's wife is an oc, not galina.

first time posting my roman writings on here and trying not to freak out tbh

warnings: angst, infidelity, language, suggestive content

song inspo: with me by destiny's child

word count: 4,000

You know that assignment everyone at some point in their education where they research what they want to be when they grow up and share it with the whole class for a grade? Yeah, that big mammoth of a question that somehow you’re supposed to have confidently answered before even reaching double digits.

That was always super easy for you.

From as far back as you can remember, you wanted to be a teacher. It took until you were in middle school, almost high school for you to settle on an elementary school teacher, college for a specific grade. But, the teaching profession always called to you.

You chalk it up to your grandmother, undoubtedly one of your favorite people in this entire world. She was also an elementary school teacher who taught until she was expectedly called home when you were 14. Some part of you wonders if you’ve never even allowed yourself to entertain any other professions because of her loss. She was your best friend, and following in her footsteps was wanted but also felt somewhat necessary. Like you had to in order to honor her and her legacy.

A couple years into your career, you still think about that, how you’ve known from such a young age what you wanted to do with your life. Well, one part. 

In other areas, maybe the most important areas, you were lost as all of the outdoors. Mostly in one area, if you’re being honest, and truthfully, it’s not even what you want in as much as it is how you get there. The path is relatively simple: find a man, fall in love, get married, have babies, live happily ever after.

It’s such a stereotypical trajectory, but one you’ve also envisioned for yourself since your late teens. You’d gotten partying all out of your system during the early college years, somewhat in high school as well. Now in your mid 20s, soon to be late 20s, all you want to do is prepare to eventually settle down. Sooner rather than later.

And the issue isn’t even having no prospects. You have a prospect, he’s just unavailable. 

Because he’s already fucking married.

But can you even call him a prospect when that implies there’s some chance? Because there’s zero chance. You know this. You know this very well, too well. So why you still allow him into your bed and inside of you is beyond you. Yes, the sex is out of this world, but you desire more than that. Maybe not at first, but almost three years deep into this arrangement, most definitely.

You still think back to your first meeting.

Your best friend won a contest that not only granted her two front row tickets to a Smackdown show but backstage passes as well. You met so many wrestlers that night, some you grew up watching on TV as the little tomboy that you were as a kid. But, it was one wrestler in particular: tall, muscular, hair more beautiful and silky than any silk press your beautician mother could ever style, that changed your life. Whether for better or worse remains to be seen. 

He was attractive, extremely, possibly one of the most beautiful men you’d ever met. But, the attraction was short-lived when you spotted the wedding band on his left hand. You’d be lying if you tried to say that was when the attraction sizzled out. It diminished, but it was still there. Still, you didn’t think much of it, that was until you received a call from a number on your phone that you didn't recognize. 

Why you even accepted the call is still a mystery. You never answered random calls, yet that one was an exception, an exception that resulted in you having an unexpected phone conversation with Roman fucking Reigns. He explained that he got your number from your friend who’d exchanged contact information with a wrestler she met that night as well. They were messing around too, that much you knew. And good for her. He, unlike Roman, was not married and therefore free to fuck around.

The conversation lasted much longer than it needed to, especially given the flirtatious nature it quickly took on. It was wrong, you knew this well, very well. He took vows, but you were also aware of those vows. And heat no point pressured you into anything, you could have cut it off. Flirtatious he was, but forceful he was not.

The conversations increased in frequency and length over a matter of weeks that turned into months, and before you knew it, your day started and ended with either a text or phone call from the wrestler. 

A small part of you knew that it would eventually escalate into more, a man like him seemed like he needed more. But, you stupidly tried to tell yourself that when that time came, you would remain strong and draw the line in the sand with just communication. Even if it was just as wrong as anything else.

It was a silly thought. 

Your resolve was weak.

You absolutely did not need to accept his invitation to fly you out to one of his shows, and you damn sure didn’t need to allow him to take you back to his hotel where your legs ended up wrapped around his waist as he pounded into you—among other things—until the early hours of the morning.

The days after that were rough. You felt absolutely disgusted with yourself. It was one thing to flirt with a married man, but it was an entirely different thing to fuck a married man. He wasn’t yours. He belonged to someone else. He had a life with some other woman. You had no right to insert yourself into that union, so you decided to sever contact with him, deleting his number from your phone and shoving the experience in the ‘biggest regret of your life’ box with no intention of reopening it.

Unfortunately for you, Roman, Joe, as he asked you to call him, was a persistent bastard.

You ignored his texts, so he called. You ignored his calls, so he texted. You ignored both, and this motherfucker showed up at your goddamn door. There were multiple times you could have and should have ended things, that being another perfect opportunity. If you told him to leave that night, not allowed him into your apartment, he would have listened. He was stubborn and resolute but also respectful. If you told him to leave, really told him, he would have done so.

But, you didn’t. You allowed him into your place and similar to the last time you were in his presence, ended up spread out on your bed with him balls deep inside you until you couldn’t feel your lower half. 

Now, fast forward three years later, not much has changed. You two don’t communicate quite as much in the day, and his visits are more spread out given the company’s current efforts at pushing him as the new face of the company. But, that doesn’t stop his visits to come see you and flights he puts you on to come see him, both of which always end with him leaving your legs jelly and throat raw.

All the while his wife sits at home unaware of her husband’s consistent residence between your legs.

The thought alone makes you sick, revolted at yourself, at how you’ve allowed yourself to reach this point in life. Closer to 30 than 20 and going on 3 years of being a mistress to a married man, a man who can never give you the future you want yet refuse to let go. 

Not that you’d ever allow yourself to really acknowledge why. 

That’s….that’s just too much.

________

Pillow talk was just something that naturally happened between the two of you. It made sense given that your relationship started out with just talking. He seemed interested in knowing more about you, about your likes and dislikes. He shared his as well. You weren’t beyond admitting that Joe was insanely easy to talk to, the flow of conversation always natural, never forced. There never seemed to be a dry spot between you two. 

And whether it was an innate ability to pick up on the emotions of others or just his, you could always tell when something was bothering him, could see when he came to you with a burden he didn’t want to discuss.

Not that that stopped you from asking. If he declined to talk about it, you respected it, didn’t push. But, more often than not, he would end up sharing things with you, mostly concerns regarding his career.

It seemed he visioned one thing for himself, while Vince McMahon saw another. He felt frustrated at times, especially when the fanbase started pushing back more. He never admitted as such, but you could see it hurt his feelings. How could it not? Kayfabe or not, Joe was still a real person with real feelings, regardless of the role he played.

And at some point, his visits to see you stopped always involving sex. That happened majority of the time, but there were occasions when he just seemed like he needed someone to be around, a distraction, someone to talk to. 

Someone like you.

“Come on.” You jumped up off the couch and offered your hand that he looked at with disinterest. “Don’t make me drag your big ass. It’ll probably break my back.” He lifts his brow, and you roll your eyes. “Joe, come onnnn.”

“Where are we going?” He finally asks, all the while sighing heavily and standing up. Though unnecessary at this point, he still takes your hand. You try not to think too much of the gentle squeeze he gives.

“To my kitchen.” 

Glancing over, he gestures with his thumb. “The place that’s like 3 feet away.”

You suck your teeth and shove against him. “Don’t be an ass. We’re gonna bake cookies.”

“Bake?”

“That’s what I said.” Though clearly skeptical, he follows you into the kitchen and watches as you start gathering supplies. “I spent a lot of summers with my grandma, and whenever either of us were having a bad day, she’d take us into the kitchen and we’d bake chocolate chip cookies. She’d always say there’s nothing a good chocolate morsel can’t cure.” 

Reflecting on those memories, so fond and cherished, brings a despondent smile to your face.

His eyes fall on you, sensing the sudden sadness. “You miss her.”

“Every day….” Shaking your head, you make a conscious effort to not make this about you and your grief. “Now, we need music.” You settle on some random “cookout” playlist that aids in setting the playful mood. To your surprise, yet not surprise, Joe keeps up without struggle. He's a fast learner, easily following along to your detailed instructions and explanations. Things get messy at times, as one does when baking, but it only causes the two of you to share laughter. Especially when you ‘accidentally’ get flour on each other. For you, it was an accident. His was definitely intentional. 

Still, between the laughter, light conversation, and New Edition serving as backdrop, it’s a sweet moment. 

“And now we wait,” you announce, plopping down on the sofa. “Wrestler by day, baker by night. Who’d a thunk it?”

He chuckles. “I never knew you could cook.”

At that, you nearly choke on the water bottle you’d grabbed off the coffee table. “Me? Cook? No. Not at all. There’s a reason every thanksgiving, my family only asks me to bring the drinks. My mom is the cook. Grandma was the baker. I can make cookies and a few select items. That’s it.”

You can still hear your grandma’s voice in the back of your head, chiding you for never allowing your mom to teach you how to cook. It just never garnered your interest, even when they swore up and down you’d never find a husband without knowing how.

Maybe they were right.

He joins you in the living room, settling on the other end of the sofa. “Maybe I could teach you then.”

His words—and offer—suprise you. “You can cook?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” He rolls his blue eyes. Some days you love the contacts, others you hate them. Today is a love day. They make his beauty even more exquisite. “Because of the big age difference between me and my siblings, it was just me and my mom a lot of times. They were either out and about or had either moved out. She’d ask me to help her out in the kitchen, and I picked up on a couple things.”

“You’re a fast learner.” That much is very obvious, in several areas of his life. “Was it ever hard? Like, not really having them around?”

He seems to think about her question before answering. “Yes and no. The twins moved to Florida when I was like three, and we became close instantly. It was like suddenly having two new brothers. Obviously, they didn’t live with us, so they weren’t always around, and those times were hard, I guess. But the older we got, the more we did together.”

The Usos. Also wrestlers trying to make names for themselves. He really does hail from a legendary dynasty. “I get that. It was just me and my mom, and she worked a lot to support us, so that’s why I spent so much time with my grandma. And I loved it, but sometimes it got lonely not really having siblings.” You look over at him, studying this massive specimen of a man who seems so unsure of himself right now, unsure of his future. He’d hinted at such during their prep, but you bookmarked the comment to revisit. “It’s all gonna work out, you know.”

His gaze is on you, partially disinterested, mostly in disagreement. Joe knows what you're referring to. He chuckles, darkly, “you sound sure.”

“I am,” you counter calmly. Moving to sit on your knees, you continue, “no matter what it takes, you make them respect you. You can do it, and when you finally find your footing, you’ll be one of the best to ever do it. Mark my words.” 

You’ve never been one to build up false hopes in anyone, far too familiar with the sting of disappointment. So every word leaving your mouth drips with sincerity. Joe is so much more than a “pretty face” or someone who got lucky by being born into a wrestling dynasty with a golden spoon in his mouth. He’s worked his ass off, you see how he works his ass off, so the last thing you’d want to witness is him become his own worst enemy by getting too into his head.

“You’ll see. They boo now, but pretty soon they’ll be cheering.” Moving to your knees, you lift your arms in a theatrical display. “Roman, Roman, Roman.” You yelp when his strong arms pull you into his lap, legs spread on either side of his thick thighs. “Would you let me hype you up? Like, damn.”

His smile, so beautiful and genuine, warms your soul. His spirits are lifted, and that’s all that matters. Joe’s hands are on your hips, palms massaging you through your shorts. You move your arms around his neck, resting on his strong shoulders “Thank you.”

It’s at this moment, you foolishly allow yourself to wonder. Wonder what it would be like for this to be the norm, for him to always return to your place when he has time off or in between shows. Wonder what it would be like to consistently be this safe space for him, to be in his corner and not just in the shadows, but in the light. To be supporting him ringside. To be his.

And for a second, you pretend. You pretend that you are his, and he’s yours. That this is your man, and you’re his girl. Just the two of you. Nobody else.

But the comedown from that is devastating, like a boulder sitting on your chest, a butcher knife to your heart. Because he isn’t yours. He never was, and he never will be. 

Mood sullen, you lower your arms to separate yourself. “I should…” You clear your throat, climbing off of him. The air is suddenly too stuffy, the room too small. You need space. “I should go check on the cookies.” 

Joe’s not stupid, far from it. You know that he has to pick up on your 180 in mood, yet he doesn’t pursue you, doesn’t ask questions, and you’re thankful for that. You need to not be around him right now, not so close, not so connected, not so in love.

You need to let him go. ________

“I can’t do this anymore.” 

Joe’s in the midst of sliding his shirt over his head, sitting on the edge of the bed when your voice, low and quiet, stops him mid movement. “What?”

“I said.” You blow out a big breath, unsure why your chest suddenly feels so heavy. “I can’t do this anymore.”

At that, he angles his body so that he can look at you, assess your face. He’s a big eye contact person. “What are you talking about?”

Irritation piques. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Joe.” Gesturing between the two of you, you kick the blankets off and quickly reach for your t-shirt that got discarded last night. Being naked in front of him suddenly feels uncomfortable. “This. It’s done.”

He pauses for a second and then shakes his head, resuming his dressing. “Okay.”

His tone is dismissive, like he doesn’t believe you. Like he thinks you’re playing around. Of course he would be in one of those moods, where he’s more irritable, less receptive and fucking stubborn. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not doing this shit with you right now.” Joe gets up and continues dressing himself, prompting you to climb out of bed and move in front of him. 

He can’t avoid his way out of this. You won’t allow it. It’s time to finally rip the bandaid off. 

You’ve sat on this for the last two weeks, since he last left your apartment and you realized you’d stupidly allowed yourself to fall for this man. Fall for a man who walks around with a wedding ring on his left hand, who’s always had that wedding ring from the moment you met him. You’re not upset with him, not as much as you’re upset with yourself.

You grew up the product of an affair, felt the stinging pain of being rejected by a parent whose selfishness resulted in the creation of life, a life he wanted no part of. Seen how your mom literally begged your piece of shit father to be in your life, to play some role. Heard how he cruelly rejected her, rejected you, calling you your mother’s bastard. A mistake.

It devastated you so deeply that you still can’t really talk about it without getting emotional. 

And yet, you idiotically found yourself playing the same role you used to judge your mother for: the other woman. 

It’s a role you stepped in, and one you must now step out of.

“There’s nothing to do.” You run your hands over your face and shake your head. Choosing to have this conversation at almost 4 o’clock in the morning probably wasn’t the best move, but you also know that if you give yourself more time, you’ll find a reason not to do it. And you need to do this. “You have a wife, Joe. A whole ass woman who loves you and would probably let you fuck her just as much as you like to fuck me. Go be with her, and if not her, find someone else, cause I won’t be that for you. Not anymore.” 

You’re not exactly sure what part of what you just said registered with him, but it’s obvious something did by the change of tone he takes. “Where is this coming from?”

“It’s coming from where it should have come a long time ago,” you answer, crossing your arms over your body. “This was never right, and I refuse to partake in it anymore. I won’t be your whore anymore.”

You didn’t expect hurt to flash in his beautiful eyes nor for him to move closer to you, that hurt intensifying when you back away. He can’t touch you. You can’t allow that, because all it takes is only touch, one longing gaze, and you’ll be putty in his hands. This has to end. “Is that really what you think you are to me?”

“I don’t know what I am to you, Joe,” you answer, honestly. It’s something you’ve battled back and forth with for nearly three years. Just what is it about you that keeps him coming back, keeps him in your bedroom, inside of you. At face value, it’s the sexual compatibility between you. Below the surface level though, there’s maybe more. You’ve never allowed yourself to venture there, and you’re certainly not about to right now. You know how you feel about him, but you refuse to really ask yourself how he feels about you. “And truthfully, it doesn’t matter, cause it doesn’t change anything.”

“So, that’s just it?” His voice is wounded, handsome face painted into a mixture of scowl and a frown. “Almost three years, and you want to throw it all away, for what?”

“For what…..Joe, you are married. You have a whole wife at home. Whatever issues you have that cause you to step out, work that shit out. Learn how to be with her. Cause I’m not doing it any more. I—I can’t.” Emotion imbues your voice toward the end, and you hate that shit. You don’t want him to see, to know, how much this has been eating you up as of lately. “I’m gonna be 30 in a few years. I want to be married. I want to have a family. I deserve that, and I’ll never have it as long as I’m messing with you, so I’ve gotta let you go.” You swallow the deep lump in the back of your throat. “And you’ve gotta let me go.” 

This time, this time you can see the part that wounds him, that digs into his chest. You’ve gotta let me go. 

Joe is fast, fast enough to move directly in front of you, large hands holding your face. He says your name, desperate almost. “Tell me what to do, tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just….” He stops, and you close your eyes, refusing to see if it’s his own emotions coming up. You can barely handle your own cascade of feelings right now and refuse to take on his. “I can’t lose you.”

What you want…..

What you want is for him to never leave. What you want is for him to stay with you, to be with you. What you want is for him to have never met Jadah, never married her, never committed his life to her. 

What you want is for him to be yours and only yours, but what you want….is also what you can never have. 

“I—I want you to leave, Joe.” The words burn your lips, scorch your throat, ache your soul. “And this time….don’t come back.”

You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes, to see the result of your heartbreaking, even if honest request. It’s because you know seeing him hurt will only cause your resolve to crumble, and you can’t have that. You have to be strong, have to be the woman your mother couldn't.

So, you remain there, remain silent as he steps away from you, his touch vanishing. There’s such an emptiness in his wake.

It’s only when you hear the front door of your apartment shut that you finally feel it, the caving of your stomach, the heavy lump move from the back of your throat, the release of the loud sob you didn’t realize you’d been keeping at bay. 

It’s when you finally allow yourself to feel all of the emotions of a woman who just told the only man she’s ever loved to leave. 

If only you knew his departure was just the beginning of the rest of your life.

[yourpenpaldee]

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ WRITEBLR INTRODUCTION.

I don't usually put myself out there as it makes me nervous. But I've been a lurker for way too long, and it's about time I step out of my comfort zone. So, hello! I'm Dee (she/her), twenty-two, and have found my voice with storytelling.

Writing has always been a passion of mine, and continues to be the tool I turn to when I need an outlet to freely express myself. I have, unfortunately, hit a rough patch with consistency, and I'm here to bring all of that motivation and inspiration back. Especially since there are one too many WIPs sitting on the backburner, and they're all calling my name.

As someone who loves to dip their toes into every genre of fiction, I will read anything that peaks my interest. However, when it comes to creating, my works usually fall under romance and mystery. With practice, I intend on branching out into other genres I don't write often. There's a lot to explore in the world of writing, and I don't want to limit myself to only two categories.

Creating this blog provides me the space I need to accomplish the many goals I often dream of achieving. I acknowledge that it all starts with the ability to hold myself accountable. To show up for myself. To become comfortable with the uncomfortable. Putting myself and my projects out into the world is only the first of many steps, and it feels quite liberating.

I aim to use the voice I've found to not only contribute to the progression of POC representation, but to touch on several topics that remain heavily stigmatized in today's media. There’s a joy that runs through my veins every time I see someone like me on my screen or in a book. I feel seen, heard, and proud. I feel important. But as a creator, there’s that itch that can only be scratched when I create. When I make something that lets the next person know that they’re not invisible. That they're valued, loved, and appreciated. That's what I hope for when someone reads a project of mine. For them to feel the same rush of joy flowing through them as it does me.

Wow, I’m a yapper. I'd like to close this intro off with some fun facts, so here are some of my top five favorites with sidenotes because I still want to yap a bit more about the things I adore.

SOLO ARTISTS:

ARI LENNOX ✧ ˚ · . CHOCOLATE POMEGRANATE — GET CLOSE — GOAT — POF — UP LATE

HALSEY ✧ ˚ · . 100 LETTERS — I HATE EVERYBODY — NIGHTMARE — ROMAN HOLIDAY — THE LIGHTHOUSE

HOPE TALA ✧ ˚ · . CHERRIES — EDEN — I CAN'T EVEN CRY — LEAVE IT ON THE DANCEFLOOR — SUNBURN

MELANIE MARTINEZ ✧ ˚ · . ALPHABET BOY — DEAD TO ME — EVIL — NOTEBOOK — STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE

HALIMA ✧ ˚ · . DOWNTOWN — FORD CARDINAL — IF LOVE WAS GREEN — SAMANTHA — TALK

BANDS:

5 SECONDS OF SUMMER ✧ ˚ · . AIRPLANES — BETTER MAN — KILL MY TIME — LONG WAY HOME — TEARS!

FALL OUT BOY ✧ ˚ · . BANG THE DOLDRUMS — CHICAGO IS SO TWO YEARS AGO — HEADFIRST SLIDE INTO COOPERSTOWN ON A BAD BET — NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER — WHERE DID THE PARTY GO

FLO ✧ ˚ · . CARDBOARD BOX — FLY GIRL — IMMATURE — SUITE LIFE (FAMILIAR) — WALK LIKE THIS

PARAMORE ✧ ˚ · . BIG MAN, LITTLE DIGNITY — CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE — FRANKLIN — MISGUIDED GHOST — PART II

THE INTERNET ✧ ˚ · . DONTCHA — HOLD ON — LOOK WHAT U STARTED — SOMTHING'S MISSING — SPECIAL AFFAIR

GAMES:

CORAL ISLAND ✧ ˚ · . IF I START LISTING NAMES, I'M GOING TO MENTION EVERYONE. BUT I'M A LOYAL MARK GIRL. AND NOAH... AND MILLIE, EVA, BEN, Y—

DISNEY DREAMLIGHT VALLEY ✧ ˚ · . THIS IS SUCH A COMFORT GAME THAT SOOTHES MY INNER CHILD.

DON'T STARVE [TOGETHER] ✧ ˚ · . I MAY OR MAY NOT STILL SUCK AT THIS GAME AFTER A SOLID THREE YEARS, BUT I'M A WIGFRID MAIN.

STARDEW VALLEY ✧ ˚ · . I LOVE SEBASTIAN AND LEAH, AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL IF I HAVE TO.

THE SIMS 4 ✧ ˚ · . WHERE I SPEND A LOT MORE TIME IN CREATE-A-SIM AND BUILD MODE COMPARED TO PLAYING THE ACTUAL GAME.

TROPES:

FAKE RELATIONSHIP ✧ ˚ · . MHM... JUST SAY YOU LIKE EACH OTHER ALREADY.

FATED MATE ✧ ˚ · . I'M A BIT PICKY ABOUT THIS TROPE THOUGH. THINGS TEND TO MOVE VERY QUICKLY BUT I ENJOY IT NONETHELESS.

FRIENDS TO LOVERS ✧ ˚ · . A CLASSIC THAT DOESN'T NEED AN EXPLANATION.

REUNION ✧ ˚ · . ESPECIALLY IF THEY WERE CHILDHOOD FRIENDS AND THEY REMINISCE OLD MEMORIES, OH MY GOODNESS. I EAT THIS TROPE UP EVERY TIME.

SLOWBURN ✧ ˚ · . NO DOUBT THIS IS MY MOST FAVORITE TROPE. THE BUILDUP TO EVEN THE TINIEST PIVOTAL MOMENT ALWAYS MAKES MY HEART THUMP.

TV SHOWS:

CRIMINAL MINDS ✧ ˚ · . YES, I’LL WATCH ALL 16 SEASONS FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME AND FALL IN LOVE WITH PRENTISS EACH TIME. WE WERE ALSO ROBBED OF BEARDED HOTCH CONTENT.

BRIDGERTON ✧ ˚ · . DO I CRY EVERY TIME I WATCH GEORGE AND CHARLOTTE'S STORY? YES. WILL I CONTINUE TO REWATCH IT AND RECITE THE LINES EVERY TIME SOMETHING REMINDS ME OF IT? ASOLUTELY.

THE BEAR ✧ ˚ · . I WISH I KNEW OF AYO EDEBIRI BEFORE THIS SHOW BECAUSE THAT WOMAN IS AMAZING??? LIKE, HELLO???

THE EQUALIZER ✧ ˚ · . *mini spoiler* STILL CAN'T STOP THINKING OF DANTE'S GRIN WHEN HE GOT TO SEE MEL, ROB, AND HARRY'S LITTLE WORK SPOT FOUR SEASONS LATER.

SWEET MAGNOLIAS ✧ ˚ · . HELEN, MADDIE, AND DANA SUE IS HOW I PICTURE MY FRIENDS AND I IN THE FUTURE. MARGARITA NIGHTS, BEING AUNTIES TO EACH OTHER'S CHILDREN, UGH. I LOVE THEM WHOLEHEARTEDLY.

And that concludes this introduction on me and this blog. I would love to connect and befriend other authors, so please don't hesitate to reach out as my DMs will always be open! I'd love to support and read your works, so don't be hesitant to share them with me if you'd like.

I hope you all will enjoy reading my works as much as I enjoy the process of bringing my ideas to life.

divider creds to strangergraphics ♡

[mcx7demonbros]

All Catholic References with Sunday (that I could find)

Well, for starter, I found lots of Catholic references with Sunday, and by extension, some elements in Penacony and even Xipe the Harmony. I feel like I have to write this down and post this. It's the reason this post exists.

Warning, this post will have extensive Bible quotes and religious references. If you are uncomfortable, please ignore this post.

Also, because I could only play the story only once and cannot go back to re-read the story, there will not be screenshots to everything.

Finally, spoilers of the newest Penacony trailblaze quest ofc

1. The name

Sunday's name is Sunday, and as you know, this is the day that is dedicated to God and most Christian (including Catholics) go to church to worship God. Sunday, right before he called upon the machine that he rode to become the weekly boss for the first time, he called it "Dominicus". This comes from the Latin word for Sunday "dominica", which means "the Lord's day". "Dominica" itself came from "Dominum, which means "Lord" or "the Lord". Even though the data bank calls the boss "Harmonious Choir" the Great Septimus, the detailed description of the boss still says "Dominicus".

If you search on the internet, you may find that the Latin word for Sunday is dies solis (which means the day of the sun). But that word was used in the pre-Christian era. Dies solis was changed to dominica after Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire in the 4th century. Till this day, English and other Germanic languages still call the first day of the week "day of the sun" in their respective languages, while other Romance/Latin languages call the first day of the week "the Lord's day", such as Portugese - domingo, Spanish - domingo, Italian - domenica, French - dimanche, etc.

2. Sunday's physical angelic features

Sunday was born a Halovian, a species in Star Rail universe well-known by their angelic iconography, having "halos" over their heads and white wings on the back of their heads. Although currently, only Sunday and Robin are shown to have wings, while other Halovian NPCs don't have them.

3. Confession

This one, I believe, is quite obvious, with Sunday acts like a priest hearing confessions of the people who came to him for guidance and a free-from-guilt conscience in what seems to be a confession booth.

4. "The creation of Adam"

Remember the cutscene with the boss in 3rd phrase reaching out the hand and touches another hand coming down from the sky.

It''s inspired by this

"The Creation of Adam" or "The Creation of Man" is a fresco painting by Michelangelo for the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in early 16th century. This painting depicts God outstretching his right hand and finger towards Adam, the first man. This is mirrored and reversed by Sunday outstretching his right hand and finger from below toward the hand appearing from the sky. It is mirrored because in the original fresco, it is God reaching out for human with his right hand and Adam reaching out with his left hand, while in the game, the mysterious hand is a left hand while Sunday reaches out with his right hand. It is reverse because in the fresco, it is God who reaches out for human, while in the game, it is Sunday, a mortal, reaching up for the deity. However, we still don't know to whom that hand in the cutscene belong, I have compared that hand with both Xipe's and Ena's in their models, and it doesn't seem to belong to either of them, although the hand looks more like Xipe's than Ena's.

5. And on the eighth day

"And on the eighth day" is the name of the last quest of the trailblaze mission/main story quest chain of Penacony that was released in version 2.2.

In the quest, we hear Sunday telling us what Ena the Order did within the first seven days of Their existence. This is based on the narrative in the first chapter of Genesis, the first book of the Bible, God created everything in six days and He rested on the seventh day. If you have done the side quest to find clues about Sunday's whereabouts for Robin, you will get a notebook with the account of what Ena did in the seven days, the notebook is also divided into numbered chapters and verses, like the Bible.

Now we come to "the eighth day". In the 3rd phrase of the boss fight, each time the boss's turn comes, it doesn't attack but count the 7 days with its turns, corresponding with the narrative of Ena's first 7 days. And even on the 7th turn, the boss doesn't attack. It attacks on its next/8th turn after the cutscene, representing the eighth day.

Now in Catholicism, the day that Jesus rose from the dead is Sunday, the first day of the week. But Sunday is after the seventh day of the week, Saturday, so it's also called the eighth day.

"The eighth day, that is, the first day after the Sabbath [loosely corresponding to Saturday], was to be that on which the Lord should rise again, and should quicken us, and give us circumcision of the spirit." St. Cyprian of Carthage

"God brought it about that Christ’s body rested from all His works on the Sabbath in the tomb, and that He rose from the dead on the third day, which we call the Lord’s Day, the day after the Sabbath, and therefore the eighth day." St. Augustine of Hippo

6. Penacony's Phonograph soundtracks

I said that I also found some religious elements with Penacony. And I found those references with many of Penacony's phonograph soundtracks.

City Upon a Hill - the name is deprived from Jesus's words in Sermon on the Mount. You are the light of the world. A city seated on a mountain cannot be hid. (Matthew 5:14)

The Strength of Sin is the Law and The Sting of Death is Sin - now both of these came from the words of St. Paul the Apostle in his first Epistle (letter) to the Corinthians in the Bible, words for words. The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. (1 Cor. 15:56)

Infirma Nostri Corporis - this is a phrase from traditional Catholic hymn Veni Creator Spiritus - Come, Holy Spirit, Creator. The phrase is an invocation of the Holy Spirit to strengthen our mortal body full of frailty and weaknesses.

Requiem Aeternam - eternal rest, this is a introit (hymn that is sung when the priest enters the church at the beginning of Mass). This introit is used at a Requiem Mass or Mass for the deceased or funeral Mass, a prayer to ask God to grand eternal rest to the deceased. Mozart wrote his own Requiem, which I believe to be the direct inspiration for this soundtrack and the next four. That means the original Catholic hymns are indirect inspirations.

Confutatis - confusion, this is a part of Sequence Dies Irae (Day of Wrath), which tells us about the Last Judgement. Confusion here means the confusion of the reprobate if you want the full context of this particular phrase. Also a part of Mozart's Requiem Mass.

Hosanna in Excelsis - Hosanna in the highest (hosanna is a word that expresses adoration, joy and praise). This originally came from the words of the crowd when they acclaimed Jesus at his Entrance into the city of Jerusalem. (Matt. 21:1-11; Mark 11:1-11; Luke 19:28-44; John 12:12-19). This was later incorporated into the praise Sanctus, which is sung at every Mass. Being an ordinary part of the Mass, the Sanctus is also a part of Mozart's Requiem.

Agnus Aeon - Lamb of Aeon, this is inspired by Agnus Dei - Lamb of God, another hymn that is present at every Mass. The hymn itself was inspired from the Bible, when St. John the Baptist called Jesus "the Lamb of God" (John 1:36). In Star Rail universe, when saying "god", the Aeons come to mind and the soundtrack's name was subsequently adopted to fit in the story. Also a part of Mozart's Requiem, same case with Sanctus.

Lux Aeterna - eternal light, the name comes from the hymn that is sung at the end of the Requiem Mass. The whole context is a prayer to God to let eternal light shine upon the departed.

7. Xipe - the Triple-Faced Soul

One of Xipe the Harmony's titles is the Triple-Faced Soul, and you can see They have three faces (or heads?) from Their model. They are also called "thousand faces", but here I'll be discussing the Triple-Faced only.

Now Xipe's three faces reminds me of the Holy Trinity, especially the depiction of the Trinity as Trifacial.

This kind of depiction of the Holy Trinity is not allowed anymore after the 1628 ban of Pope Urban VIII, who feared the depiction could make the people confused about the doctrine of the Trinity.

While the Trinity in Christianity is Three Distinct Persons but one God, one Divinity, Xipe is one person with three faces as symbolism.

I do know that gods in Hinduism have multiple heads, but I have only seen gods with 4 heads, 5 heads or even 8 heads. The only time I see a three-head god is when they depict Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva together as the Trimurti.

Well, those are all the Catholic references I could find and remember. Feel free to tell me if I missed something :3

[rosegardenscans]

Hello everyone,

we are a scanlation group of classic shoujo enthusiats and we want to post updates here of our projects.

Some of you maybe remember the Rose Garden main site here on tumblr, sadly that one exists no more, but our group is still active.

We also have an discord server, so if you are interested on helping us with our projects, you are very welcome to join: https://discord.gg/wByzNR9pAT

Here is also our project site on MangaDex, where we post our projects: https://mangadex.org/group/da13a6a9-28f1-4e80-9ad5-74f239859632/the-rose-garden?tab=titles

These are our current projects:

Swan by Kyoko Ariyoshi, newest chapter: 55

The Allegory of Nijinsky (Nijinsky Guuwa) by Kyoko Ariyoshi, newest chapter: 1.4

Divine Love, Earthly Passion (Tenjou no Ai Chijou no Koi) by Tomoko Katou, newest chapter: 4

From Eroica with Love Tributes, newest chapter: 23

The Hotel on the Dangerous Hill (Abunazaka Hotel) by Moto Hagio, newest chapter: 1

Marie-Antoinette. La jeunesse d'une reine. by Fuyumi Soryo, newest chapter: 1

Legend of Hikari (Hikari no Densetsu) by Izumi Aso, newest chapter: 1

And we are also working on some more ;)

[thelastofhyde]

ii. santorini.

pairing. tourguide!joel miller x fem!reader. series synopsis. on the brink of undergoing a life-altering change, you runaway from your problems in the only way any sane person can: embarking on a mediterranean cruise. there you meet joel miller, a grumpy, private tour-guide, who just so happens to be tasked with touring you through each stop on your cruise. from greek goddesses to roman ruins, you have ten days to avoid your fate. maybe a frowning, southern, sex-on-legs of a man is just what the doctor ordered. chapter summary. tensions are high as you and joel spend your first day together exploring the popular island of santorini. back on the boat, joel gets a glimpse at more than he bargained for. series warnings. no use of y/n, set in 2015, no apocalypse au, cruise!au, rom-com, enemies-ish to lovers, tour-guide!joel, unspecified age gap, depictions/discussions of grief, angst, fluff, a whole load of smut, a lot of cheesy stereotypical romance tropes bc i just wanna see joel not suffer ( too much ) <3 chapter warnings. mild smut ( female masturbation, mentions of oral sex + piv sex ), bickering, alcohol, mild angst, so much cheese it'll turn you lactose intolerant!! btw joel hates santorini and he makes that known, but none of his opinions reflect my own ( please don't be mean to me over things characters say <33 ) word count. 7.9k hyde’s input. the majority of this chapter was written with a mixture of medicine flowing through my veins, it's a miracle it's even intelligible. apologies for the wait, the holidays and health issues got in the way <3 as always, i hope you enjoy, comments an dreblogs are always appreciated !! previous chapter - next chapter - series masterlist

It is a known fact that your name and late rarely exist within the same sentence.

The mere thought of being late fills you with a sickness you cannot cure. The extremes you’ll go to avoid it know no bounds. From arriving four hours before a flight, to waiting in your car a whole hour before entering a lecture hall, adulthood is a phase in which you’d sworn to repair the damage of a childhood worth of not arriving late.

Late to school, late to birthday parties, late to dentist appointments.

It wasn’t that you were a particularly difficult child, running rampant around the house as your mother tried to dress you, or your father tried to feed you. Quite the contrary, really. Often, it was little-you who chased around after them, and who waited by the door, school bag in hand, tapping your foot with every second that ticked by on the clock. You were too young and hadn’t the ability nor the empathy to understand that your parents were held up with sorting through things directly influenced by your existence, like cleaning up the messes you left at the breakfast table, or fixing the doorknob you and your sister broke in an intense game of hide and seek.

Nowadays, you can count on one hand the times you’ve been late.

First, you were late to your own surprise birthday party, but that was down to you getting stuck an extra hour at work. It was out of your control.

Then, there’d been your graduation ceremony. Your father missed an exit and ended up taking you on a mystery tour of the city, trying to find the next turn that led to your campus. Again, out of your control.

The third time is the one you remember panicking over the most, knee bouncing uncontrollably with nerves as you sat squeezed between two strangers on a plane. Your sister, barely halfway through her third trimester, had gone into labour, and where were you? Stumbling around drunk on a private beach in Cancún, mumbling along to the lyrics of some early 2000s classic you forget the name of. Your niece, all 4 and a half pounds of her, had decided now was her time to shine and there was nothing, not even the 4 weeks she had yet to grow in utero, that was going to stop her. By the time you arrived, mascara smudged eyes and with the stench of tequila still on your skin, she was laying peacefully in her incubator, the tiniest little fingers clenched into fists and a name tag around her wrist. This too was out of your control.

But the fourth time you’re late, as you stride urgently across the wooden decking of the ship, weaving in and out of lounge chairs and polo-neck wearing crew members, it’s completely within your control.

Yet, it’s not entirely your fault.

An alarm that never went off. A game of hide-and-seek with your purse. An unfortunate slip on bathroom tiles adding another bruise to your knees. An elevator that refused to travel faster than the speed of a snail. It’s as though Lady Luck had set out in favour of being against you, doing her utmost to ensure you arrive exactly seven minutes past your deadline. His deadline.

Best be on the deck by 7 am, darlin’, or I’m dockin’ without ya.

Your head whips from one side to another, eyes finding a familiar figure amongst the few passengers meeting their own private guides. It’s the same man from yesterday, out on the balcony, the memory of him cheering his champagne and shooting a tipsy smile your way replaying. Only now he’s clad in plaid, with a frown etched into his forehead as he stares at his watch. There’s another man, hanging off his arm, fusing with the collar of his shirt.

“She’s late,” you overhear him say, voice firm and leaking with annoyance.

“Maybe she just slept in!” The man next to him is cheerier, tired eyes full of optimism, even as he turns his head and stifles a yawn. “Give her a few minutes.”

“What kind of shitty tour guide sleeps in?” Balcony-Man huffs, and you can’t help but think of your niece and her pouty face whenever she fails to get her own way. “Does she think I’d not rather be asleep too? Lazy c-”

“See? This is why I told you to eat that damn croissant before we left.” The taller of them seems to snap, rolling his eyes. “Brighten up, Bill, or so help me God you’ll be leaving this boat a divorcee.”

Trying to tune their voices out, as the guilt of prying crawls its way into your bones, your gaze points down at your feet. The very same heels you’d worn last night, pretty as they may leave you, have you cursing at the Sun and the Moon. If you’d have just worn your sneakers, maybe you could have ran up the stairs instead of taking the snail-evator.

Joel, tour guide, Signore Miller’s voice- though your imagination can’t quite reach his level of arrogance- rears its irritating head through your mind, recalling his words from last night. Wear somethin’ a little more… practical. That had been enough to awaken that stubborn mule inside of you, hell-bent on proving him wrong.

But now, late, and with him nowhere in sight, your heels seem to have had the opposite effect. They’ve proved him right.

Which leaves you here, moping so pathetically you’re incapable of appreciating the shine of a rising sun over the horizon of aqua blue water.

Five minutes, you decide. That’s how long you’ll allow yourself to dwell in self-pity. Then, you’ll trek your way over to the Excelsior lounge, hit up the breakfast buffet, and await the general disembarking time.

Who knows, maybe you’ll get a call to say there’s a miraculous spot opened up on one of the tour groups.

If not, you’ll be fine! You’ve travelled alone before, you’ve got an all-inclusive data plan on your phone and you’re pretty well-acquainted with the less-than-accommodating features of Google Maps. You don’t need help, or a tour guide, much less one as blood-boiling, skin-prickling, irritating as Joel Mil-

“Wasn’t sure how ya like your coffee, but you look like a milk, two sugars kind of girl to me.”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Or, in this case, think of him.

Turning a little too fast, you stumble a step or two back, and, sure enough, there he is. A tight fitting, dark grey t-shirt stretched over the swell of his biceps, a pair of washed-out denims, and two well-worn running shoes, one on each foot. Trailing up the swell of his tanned neck, you count the freckles up to his eyes, and find there’s bags under them. The growth of hair on his face is just as unkempt as yesterday, yet already it seems to have grown longer, making the litter of greys stand out more. The hair that sits atop his head is damp, and the strands that have managed to dry are being messed around by the morning air. He’s still got that ever-present frown stamped into his forehead, yet his mouth doesn’t seem to curl into a snarl as he calls your name.

You must stare a moment or two past his comfort level, for he clears his throat and nods down at his hand. Two to-go cups, the smallest streams of steam floating out the hole in each lid.

He’s extending one out- the one in his right hand- towards you. “If you’d rather black, you can take min-”

“No!” You snap back into your own body, all too quickly and all too volatile. Clear your throat, and then try again, this time with a little less of that im being held at gunpoint shake in your voice. “No… Thank you. It’s fine- Milk is fine.”

It’s more than fine.

In fact, he’s gotten it spot on. Down to the number of sugars you take.

But, still stubborn, you yearn to not give him the satisfaction of being right so early in the day, and instead settle for accepting the coffee out his hand. You welcome the golden warmth eagerly, eyes unable to resist slipping shut as you take your first sip. When they reopen, you find Joel watching you, intently. Purposefully, as though you’re something to be studied.

Clearing your throat, you glance to the side and spot Balcony-Man and his partner greeting an apologetic woman.

“Thanks for the, uh,” his stare is intimidating your nerves, setting you on edge of something you’re all to eager to jump off. “Coffee. Yeah. You didn’t have to… I mean, I actually thought you’d, you know, uh-”

“You thought I left without ya.” He states. All you can do is nod. “I could’ve. I did warn you not to be late.”

“You did.”

“I also told you to wear somethin’ other than them heels.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, late and in heels. You’re not very good at following orders.” He exhales something akin to a chuckle, as devoid of humour as it may be, and you swear he’s suddenly closer than you remember, knuckles brushing against your own as he bumps his paper cup against yours. “Just what am I gonna do with ya, huh?”

For a moment, you swear your heart has leaped from your chest and up to your throat, threatening to choke you with the beat of it. There’s no sense you can make of it, this reaction he rouses, a heat you can’t control creeping down your loins as you drag in a whiff of some manly cologne, the kind you’d usually turn your nose up at for being too overbearing. Yet, on him, it’s not. On him it’s just right, like he was born with pine soaked skin, and a tobacco stained kiss, and-

Before you can think of pulling in another breath, Joel’s stepped back, allowing a cool breeze to pass between you and get a hold of your senses.

“C’mon, we’re slotted in for the first tender that leaves for shore.”

“Oh my God.”

You’re half certain Joel’s growing sick of hearing those three words roll off your tongue. He’s likely felt this way since it first left your mouth, feet struggling to safely step out onto the dock as your mind became enchanted by the picturesque view in front of you. Only the burn of his hand meeting your lower back, nudging you ahead to make space for himself and the other passengers to step off the tender boat, was capable of dragging you back into your own body, the wanderlust that had gripped your soul yearning to be free to explore every building that sits carved into rock, every water-taxi that flows idly on cristaline water, every step that winds up and up and up the island’s cliff where, at the top, civilisation seems to lie.

The port you’ve docked on is rather small, with naught more than two docking strips and a walkway of shops and confection stands, with boats that find no space along the docking strips tying themselves to any safety they may find over the expanse of the walkway. It is no wonder the cruise floats safely out in deeper waters, alongside several other cruise lines, with no space for such large vessels. And, yet, the port is alive with something. The ground seems to pulse, like a beat of a heart, and the air, as fresh as the grass after heavy rainfall, almost dances its way down your lungs. Voices swim all around you, tourists scrambling past each other, fighting in a race towards something you’ve yet to identify.

“So this is Gialos, also known as the Old Port of Fira.” Somewhere, behind you perhaps, Joel’s voice pipes up, a speech so rehearsed and robotic, a part of your wonders how many times he’s recited it, how many people he’s recited it to. The other part of you, however, is much too fixated on the stairs ahead to pay him true attention, eyes following as two men and several donkeys descend. “That, up there, is Fira, the capital of Santorini. We’re going to need to take a cable- Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You’re quick to react, a defensive rise in your voice. He meets it with a deadpan look and the crossing of his arms over his chest, which quickly becomes something you wish he wouldn’t do as you watch the tight fabric of his shirt stretch itself thin over the bulge of his arms. “No. Sorry, I’m just… Wow.”

You hope he appreciates the restraint you show towards repeating those three dreaded words again.

“You have all day to stare,” his words trip over his own irritated scoff, and you bite back a question of why he’s a guide if he seems to hate it so much, fearful he’s too honest to not tell you a truth that may hurt your fragile feelings. A truth where it is not so much his job he dislikes, but rather, your presence and all that it brings. “Right now, we need to move. Don’t wanna spend all day waitin’ in line now, do ya?”

This need for speed that hooks the other tourists seems to filter over into your guide, who’s forcing you forward, that heat of his palm now hovering inches away from your lower back. It’s enough to lead you where he pleases. As a pair, you weave in and out small clusters of people, till the space between you both and the large gathering crowd slowly diminishes. It is there where his once telepathic leading fails, with Joel turning left towards it as you stray right, over to the ascending pathway of stairs.

“Where are you going?” His tone is offended, almost, as he comes to a halt and watches you fail to do the same, to notice the space between you both and correct it like some puppy who’s been called to heel by its master.

“Where am I going?” The question, at first, is one you mistake as rhetorical. Staring back at him with an equaled confusion, you gesture to the stairway, as though it is the most obvious answer. Because, well, where else could you have been heading? He said so himself, that up there is Fira, the capital of Santorini, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to see it. “Where are you going?”

“To the cable cars, that’ll take us up the island.”

Above the crowd of people, hanging over doors of small businesses, lay several signs. CABLE CARS - 6€ ! stands out, impossible to miss. Symbols you scarcely recognise sit beneath it, in smaller text, and you assume it’s Greek. In the distance, you spy the movement of the mobile boxes, people being carted up the length of the cliff at a speed that promises them a journey of mere minutes.

“Oh.” So, perhaps his option makes more sense than your own far longer, more tiring one. Still, stubborn as a mule, you double down on your decision to take the scenic route, inching closer towards the first step. Your guide, still in the face, refuses to move, daring eyes willing you to continue. “You want us to take the lazy man’s route? You go ahead, I’ll take the stairs and meet you at the top.”

You press one foot up onto the first step, weary of where you rest the point of your heel.

Glancing a few steps further up, there’s the unmistakable sight of a mound of brown substance, no doubt excreted out of one of the donkeys that walk ahead, tourists mounted on their poor backs.

“I don’t think you understand,” he finally inches closer, if only slightly, hands clenched at his side. “There’s five hundred and eighty-eight steps until you reach the top.”

The number is more daunting than you expect, and you pray he can’t read this on your face. “Only? I’ll be up in no time then!”

You feel more than see the way Joel’s eyes travel down the expanse of you, stuttering almost over the curvature of your chest, the dips at your hips, till they rest at your feet. The question hangs loose between you, unspoken yet evident.

In those heels?

“Listen, Joel,” taking a second, third, and fourth step, you aim for a literal higher ground, staring down below as he continues to drift closer and closer towards the stairway. “If you’re not fit for the task, or the climb’s no good for your knees, you can just say it, there’s no shame. Like I said, I’ll meet you at the top. Promise I won’t even report the fact my private guide abandoned me in favour of his own comfort.”

Defeat has never come easy.

Well, to phrase it better towards the truth, acceptance of defeat has never come easy.

There was always something more to be said, another excuse to be given for any of your shortcomings. When you’d been turned away from the school’s soccer team, you’d told yourself it was because you were a girl- ignoring the fact three girls in your year made the cut. When you’d lost an arduous game of Monopoly, you’d sworn you’d caught your sister sneaking notes out of the banker’s pile into her own. When you’d been beaten, round after round, by your own niece at Mario Kart, you’d stuck your tongue out at her and told her you let her win out of pity.

All that had been before, of course, back when you still roamed school hallways, when your sister sat across from you at the dining table, when your niece still laughed freely, wildly, celebrating her own victories with an over-the-top, uncoordinated dance around the living room.

As changed as things may be, defeat is still your foe.

It is that reason alone that you bite back a complaint.

You’d enjoyed the initial moments of your trek. Maybe it was the salty air in your lungs, or the beautiful views of your surroundings, or the idle grumbling coming from Joel, a few paces behind you, kicking up dirt under his feet with every step he travelled up. Whatever the reason, adrenaline had been flowing, into your heart and through your veins, covering every square inch of your body, a tingling of nerves from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine.

But, by the 10 minute mark, a dull ache forms in your feet. Each step of your heel feels more life threatening than the last, as the stairs grow slippier, dustier, and well-worn the further up you advanced. By stair who-knows-how-may, you take a near fatal tumble backwards, the crunch of crumbling rock threatening to be the last thing you hear. Till he appears behind you, fast as light, huffing out a breath as you smack down against his solid chest.

“Mind your step.” From anyone else, you would mistake it as a sign of care. From Joel, you know better than to think it’s anything beyond a humourless taunt.

You try to keep count of the steps, from then on, an effort to motivate yourself to move faster with each ten-pace you count. By 50, you lose your place and begin counting all over again.

The journey is difficult in other ways, too, with the constant passing of donkeys who obligate you to stand aside and make way for them. And the distant movement of cable cars, firing up and sliding down more times than you can keep track of.

When a particular step proves itself too steep, you can no longer hold back and, finally, a hiss slips out between your clenched teeth as pain shoots up your ankle, the leather of your shoe rubbing even harder into your brittle skin, threatening the promise of a blister yet to fully swell. Pushing the pain down, alongside a complaint, you take another step. Hiss. Then another, hiss. You can fight it no longer, bending at the waist to slip off your heel and examine the irritated skin.

Sure enough, it’s been rubbed raw, broken and spilling a small pool of blood.

Behind you comes an exasperated groan and, before you can straighten yourself to even register what’s happening, Joel barges past you and the figure of him up ahead slowly diminishes the faster he climbs up hill.

“Hey!” You call after him, hobbling to slip your shoe back on, but it’s to no avail.

He’s long gone, growing further and further out of your reach with each passing minute.

Cursing him under your breath, you decide to hell with the no complaints of his preferred regard for his own comfort. He’s abandoned you, injured and hobbling up the steps, all because he has the patience of a toddler who’s been waiting far too long to go potty.

“Wear somethin’ a little more sensible…” You’re bound to seem deranged to any passers by, half hopping up the steps, mumbling to yourself in a mockery of his deep voice “Yeah, right, how bout I shove somethin’ a little more sensible up your ass. Oh, what’s that? There’s no room up there with the massive stick you’re already carryin-”

“A local man warned me bout ya, on my way back down. Said there was some no-good girl casting out bad juju.” You freeze, foot stopped in mid-air. Shifting your gaze up ahead, you find Joel there, skipping a step every so often as he grows closer and closer. At his side, dangling from two fingers, sits a plastic bag. “Told him it ain’t no juju or curses you’re casting, just throwin’ a little tantrum.”

Like a fish out of water, all you can do is stare at him, wide eyes and mouth agape.

Joel pays your silence no mind, almost delighting in it. With a pop and a crack from his knees, he crouches down before you, holding out the palm of his hand.

“C’mon,” he mutters, pointing towards your injured foot. “Lemme see.”

You’re hesitant, at first, but ultimately lift it and let him curl his grip around it, holding you in place as the shoe slips off you. A tut meets your ears as his eyes meet the bloodied mess, and you watch how he contemplates, for a moment or two, before wetting his thumb with his tongue and swiping it over your broken skin.

It stings, like salt in a wound or a bee’s stinger through skin, and you try to flinch back, retract yourself from his hold. But Joel’s strong, resilient, nails biting at the flesh of your ankle to keep you in place. His free hand digs into the plastic bag he’d discarded at his side and pulls out a white box. Fiddling with it for a short period, he manages to open it at last and slips out a bandaid. He rips that open a lot quicker, using his teeth, and slips it over your open wound perfectly, thumb and pointer finger smoothing it around the curve of your heel.

“D’ya see now why I told you to not wear those things?” You feel like a child at his words, reprimanded like you once were for touching your mother’s curling iron. “And why I said we should take the cable car?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you refuse to meet his eyes. But he just won’t let you be, craning his own neck to infiltrate the space you stare off into. There’s a pleased look on his face, smugness pulling at the right corner of his mouth. Alarmingly, you think of how it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing him smile.

You continue your pursuit of silence, repeating a mantra of how you don’t care that he’d tried to look out for your comfort, or how he’d then tried to save you the effort of an uphill battle, or how his hand, big and warm and rough at the fingertips, is still holding your foot in place, absentmindedly rubbing your ankle in a circular motion.

“Look at ya, gone all quiet on me,” that corner of his lip curls higher. You register the rustling of the bag, his hand digging back inside it. “Ain’t one for bein’ put in your place, are you?”

Out comes his hand once more, though this time it’s not a box of bandaids. Now, resting firm in his grasp, sits a mixture of navy blue dyed cotton, stitched atop a flat, thick layer of a straw-like material. A slip-on canvas shoe. Joel doesn’t await permission, nor does he even ask for it. He simply takes charge, slipping it onto your foot, mindful as he straightens out the back to lay against your heel.

“Other foot, up.”

Switching feet, you stumble as your weight completely shifts onto your injured side. Your hands, reaching out to stabilise your swaying body, are quickly directed by his own to rest atop his head, curls of brown threading between your fingers. You contemplate asking what products he uses to achieve locks so smooth and shiny, then rethink it as soon as you imagine his reply of a disinterested grunt and a snarky ain’t use anythin’ but dirt water and a splash o’ whiskey.

“How’s it feel?”

Soft, you almost reply, then realise he’s asking about the shoe.

With a wiggle of your toes, you tell him it’s fine, and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know they’re surprisingly comfortable.

Joel rises with a bit of a struggle, yet refuses the help you offer. Rough hands scoop up your discarded heels, tossing them into the bag, and then he straightens his back, lets out a noise of discomfort, before nodding up ahead.

“C’mon, only got a hundred or so to go. We’ll be up in no time.”

The sun sits high in the sky when you reach the city of Fira.

Crossing over that last step, 588 painted in white across it, you huff out a sigh, exhaustion aching you out of any enjoyment of your victory over the stairway from hell. Before you can even utter a word of your thirst, Joel is already reaching into his bag of wonders, unscrewing the lid off a bottle of water and passing it to you. Grateful, you take a sip, and lament the few drops that spill down your chin.

At least they don’t go to complete waste, cooling your skin ever so slightly.

It’s a shame to see Joel start moving again, moments before you’re even ready to gain back your breath, but you follow after him, nonetheless, mindful to not press your foot too hard down. Through streets he winds, past shopkeepers he walks. Eventually, after a few minutes, you ask him where you’re both heading.

“To catch a coach,” his hand moves quickly, tugging you closer as a bicycle shoots past behind you. Your own find themselves against his chest, and realise it is nothing like his hair. Solid, warm, wide. It’s almost a shame to lower them back down to your side. “Less you think you can walk from here to Oia, too.”

Truth be told, you don’t know where Oia is.

But you do know your walking for the day is over, happy to follow Joel onto the coach. You take the aisle seat, he’s by the window. Across from you both sits a couple, young and giggling into one another’s ears, as though the sounds of their joy is sacred to none but them. A pang of envy thumps your soul, and you quickly turn your face.

Only to find that Joel’s is grey.

Not the hair that lines it but, rather, his whole face, paled and blood-drained. It’s a sickly image, and one that’s quick to get your heart racing.

“Are you okay?” Any thought of keeping your composure becomes mute as you hear your own voice, a treacherous shake to it that gives your panic away. “You look…” There is no word kind enough for you to use to relay the image of him, so you lock your lips.

It takes a few seconds for you to get a reply, as your hand moves up to feel his forehead. It’s sweaty, warm, and you move to pull your hand back when he’s holding it firm in place, eyes slipping shut. “‘S cold. You’re cold,” seems to be his explanation. “I’m fine, it’s just- Carsick.”

“You get carsick, yet you work on a cruise.”

“Not the same. Ship’s big, somethin’ bout the size and my own visibility, ‘s what stops me getting seasick.”

You sit like that the rest of the coach, your hand pressed to his forehead, his eyes slipped shut.

“What’s your favourite stop on the cruise?”

As it turns out, Oia is exactly what you’d pictured Santorini to be.

White washed houses, deep blue domes for rooftops, turquoise waters, all for as far as the eye can see. Joel complains, more than tells you, of the rise in tourism over the years, of how it’s turned the beautiful village into a party-town for idiots abroad, disregarding the clean environment, shamelessly blocking paths to snap a frame-worthy shot, raising prices to the ceiling. When you ask him if he thinks he’s in part to blame, if people like him are to blame- running tours, bringing guests onto the island, earning a wage off the visiting of such a place- he grumbles out something about missing breakfast, needing lunch.

So you find a cafe. Or, more, Joel leads you to one. He greets the doorman, with a wave and a pat on the back, before sauntering his way through to a back terrace, overlooking the whole village, the water perfectly framing it. Stepping out and sitting down, the view robs the very breath out of your lungs.

It’s like sitting inside a postcard.

Joel asks if you like Greek food.

You tell him you’ve never had it.

He orders for you both, a mixture of different plates, and swears he’ll find something you’ll like.

It turns out you’re rather fond of baklava.

“Florence.” Joel’s taken his time to answer, staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. Disbelief more than fear in his eyes, you have to wonder if it’s the first time someone’s thought to ask him, in all his years as a guide. Naturally, this leads you to wondering how many years that is. “It’s a real site. Full of history, a real story to be told.” He tilts a ceramic dish your way, eyes glancing down in an offering. You follow them, and spot olives. Shake your head, no, then smile, thanks. He shrugs, more for me, and pops two into his mouth. “There’s this…” he pauses to chew. “This library.”

“A library?”

“‘S not just a library.” He slips out the olive’s pip and raises another into his mouth. You try not to think about how thick his fingers look, rolling the remaining briny green pebbles around in the pot. “There’s a cinema built inside it. Plays some classic films. I always- or, I try to go whenever we dock.”

It’s hard to picture Joel inside a cinema, something about the setting too busy, too loud to place his scowling face in. Would he be the kind to have a favourite seat, perfectly picked to optimise the sound quality? Does he speak animatedly, excited any time he recognises an actor? Or is he a shusher, the kind to roll his eyes when someone dares to even clear their throat?

A part of you wants to ask him if your tour involves a trip to this library.

Something tells you it’s not a place he likes to share, though. It’s his own little corner, safe to sneak a moment of selfish indulgence amidst a week of catering to another’s needs.

“A cinema inside a library?” A waiter interrupts you, asks if everything’s alright. Joel orders another serving of baklava. “Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?”

“Yeah.” For a moment, you think you see a smile creep across his lips. “Suppose it is.”

Another interruption comes in the form of your ringtone, rippling the water in your glass as your phone vibrates upon the table. You’re well aware of how Joel spots the word Mum displayed across your screen. Just like you’re aware he sees how you swipe down on your screen and switch on aeroplane mode.

Before he can ask any questions, or the sudden silence can become too deafening, you throw out another question. “And your least favourite?”

“Least favourite stop?” You nod, affirmative, and he needs no time to reply. “Here.”

“Here?! How come?”

The baklava arrives, as if on cue, and you point down at it, as though it is reason enough to be enamoured with the island. It seems to do little to convince him, his hand reaching out to push the plate closer to you, inviting you to indulge yourself.

“Compared to the other stops, Santorini’s bland.” He says it when your mouth is too occupied to protest, stuffed full with layer after layer of pastry. “Kind of like a diamond, y’know? Real pretty to look at, empties your wallet, and, at the end of the day, ain’t much you can do with it.”

“People propose with diamonds.” You point out, and cough as a flake of pastry hits the back of your throat.

Joel’s already passing you your glass of water before you even think to reach for it.

“People propose with rings. Diamonds are just custom, not a guarantee.”

Sunset arrives with no warning, a hue of fiery orange melting down into the calm waters on the horizon. It’s Joel who makes the call to head back, one glance at his watch enough to tell you the last chance to catch a coach is nigh. It’s only as you go to call for the bill that he tells you it’s covered and you realise his earlier trip to the bathroom had been a ruse to go pay.

The trip back is calmer, quieter, with the coach full of sunkissed and heat exhausted tourists.

Again, you take the aisle seat, and Joel, the window.

Keeping an eye on him is easy, switching your gaze towards the approaching darkness of the night sky calling upon the street lights anytime he meets your eyes. When you notice the increase in breaths and the paling of his skin, you wordlessly unscrew the cap off a bottle and slot it into his hand, inviting him to finish off the last sips of your water.

Skipping out on a trip down memory stairway, you quietly follow him into the cable car and, when you reach the Old Port, you try your best to block out his smug remark of how easy and fast the ride was. A feat which becomes easier as you stumble halfway up the dock and turn back.

Like hours before, as you first stepped off the tender, your mouth falls agape. Only, this time, wider. The view of the island lit up in all its glory is enough to leave you breathless, hands scrambling to fish out your phone, open the camera and-

“You gettin’ on or what?” Joel calls out from behind, and you find him waiting on board one of the tenders, hand held out towards you.

It’s a demand, more than it is an offer, to hurry up. The collective of other passengers are watching the interaction, and a feeling you’ve come to know all too well crawls its way into your veins.

A burden, holding them all up, that’s what you are.

The feeling follows you back, as you slip into a damp seat and watch as the boat carries you further and further from the island, it’s lights twinkling in a way that chokes you up, drains you out, eyes stinging from more than just the salty air. You’ll love it, I swear! The memory plays out in your head, those words gushed at you. Hands squeezing your cheeks, a smile blinding you under its brightness. Just wait till you see it at night, the lights shine over it like stars!

You blink.

A tear pools at the corner of your eye.

“Here, look,” something nudges you. It’s Joel, inching his phone into your view. Through blurred sight, you glance at it. And find yourself, centre frame, lit only by the moon. In the back lies the whole skyline of Santorini, lights reflecting down onto the waters below. “Best view you can get, the whole island in one shot.”

Afraid to hear your own voice, you smile.

He answers by pointing his phone back at you, snapping another photo.

Back on the cruise, the two of you part ways, with Joel telling you to meet him in the same bar, same time as the night before.

Dinner had been part of your plans. With a glance over the listed restaurants on board, the ache in your tired bones asks you to stay in bed and make use of the room service. You listen, order something light, easy. It arrives in under 10 minutes and your hunger is satisfied sitting out on the balcony, watching the dark waves roll past.

Phoning your mother is the next port o'call.

Unlike with your food, that takes longer than 10 minutes. Much longer, and involves you countlessly reassuring her that yes, you’re okay, and no, you don’t need her to fly out and meet you in Naples.

“I’m a big girl,” you even throw in a laugh, hoping it’ll ease the worry lines you can picture splayed over your mother’s face. “I think I can climb up a mountain without my mum’s help.”

“Honey, you know that’s not what why I’m worri-”

“Did you know you can get carsick but, at the same time, not seasick?”

You hang up shortly after, with a promise to try your best to answer when she calls tomorrow, instead of hours later, when she should be fast asleep.

The time on your phone tells you there’s still forty minutes until you need to meet Joel. The image of that grandiose bathtub flashes before your eyes and, in record timing, you’re sinking into scalding waters, a complimentary bath bomb dumped in and granting you the childish gift of bubbles.

You try to relax, at first.

There’s no need to wet your hair, so you indulge yourself. Lay your head back, close your eyes. Feel your muscles loosen with the warmth, ignore the sting of soap in your blistering heel. Your hands struggle to find a resting place, until they meet your thighs. They sit still, for a moment or two, before one slips down, inching into the crease of where your legs meet.

Something stirs in your core, comes alive as you think of how long it’s been since you last felt someone. A few months, it has to be. A fellow graduate, if you remember correctly, that stupid robe still on his shoulders as he let his mouth come down on you.

Your hand is soon on your core, before you really notice, mind on a mission to recall the hazy encounter. When you think of his tongue, messy yet eager, your finger’s already on your clit, pressing against it with a tease of pleasure. When you think of his cock, uncut and thicker than your ex, splitting you open on his bedroom floor, your hips cant up against yourself, chasing friction. When you rewind how soft Joel’s hair had been between your fingers, your free hand grips one of your breasts, fingers pinching at your nipple.

Your eyes snap open.

Joel’s hair.

Joel.

Something you should not be thinking of right now, hand buried between your thighs.

You wait a few seconds, remind yourself of the graduate’s face.

His blue eyes, your fingers roll over your nipple.

His blonde hair, your legs spread wider.

Joel’s solid chest, your fingers dip inside your cunt.

Your breath is shaky, Joel’s annoyed groan echoes.

The shame of it, of thinking of him, is almost as tantalising as touching yourself, fucking your own hole full with as much of your fingers the angle will allow. It’s a one time thing, you justify. You just need to get it out your system. One and done, cum and done. No more of Joel Miller between your thighs, this is the closest he’ll get.

Someone knocks at your door.

You nearly miss it over the sound of your breathing, the pounding of your heart.

“Who is it?” You don’t like how weak you sound, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Another knock.

“Can I come in?”

A hand still between your thighs, orgasm titering on the edge, body fully submerged in lukewarm water. “No!”

“Ain’t safe to leave your door unlocked. Anybody could walk in- Jesus!”

You’ve never screamed louder.

Joel takes up most of the bathroom doorway, same clothes save for the shirt that’s got two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. You’re pressed right back into the bathtub, as physically far from him as you can get, knees pressed up to your chest, ankles crossed over.

In Joel’s defence, he’s quick to turn away, presenting you with a view of his back. A hand runs through his hair.

“Why are you in my room?!” You inch even further back, the water suddenly dropping several degrees.

“I asked to come in!”

“And I told you not to!”

“Well obviously I didn’t hear that!”

“Why are you in my room?” You’re back to your first question, eyeing up your towel.

It’s across the room, on the bathroom sink. No way for you to reach it without the risk of him seeing you reflected on something.

“You were late. Came to check if ya tripped on them heels and broke your neck.”

“I,” you’re not sure what time it is with your phone sitting by the bed, charging. That's now five times you've been late in adulthood. “Didn’t realise the time. I can meet you at the bar in ten minutes.”

He nods, and you watch him take a step, then immediately pause. “You know, I’ve heard a few things from passengers…” You may not see his face, but you swear there’s that half-smirk, smug look upon it. It’s practically dripping off his words. “The shower head, fourth setting. Seems to get the job done for most ladies on board.”

Grabbing the closest thing in reach- a bar of soap- you launch it and watch it bounce off his irritatingly wide shoulders. “Get OUT!”

You make it to the Tipsy Byson in 15 minutes.

Dressed more appropriately than the night before, your flared jeans and crop top garner less stares. It’s just as busy, if not busier, yet it’s not hard to spot Joel on a barstool, nursing a glass of something syrupy looking. Behind the bar is Luke, head thrown back at something Joel says.

They’re an interesting pair to observe, you realise as you make your way over. With Luke, so tall, so lanky, so bright-face, his energy warm and inviting, and Joel so- well, Joel.

“There she is,” Luke cheers, a little too loudly, calling attention to you as you slip into the stool next to Joel. “My new favourite customer.”

“Thought I was your favourite,” Joel’s yet to look at you, and it’s a relief. He’s looked at you enough for one day, one week, one lifetime.

“Sorry but she smells better than you, Joel,” the barman winks at you, a cheeky grin on his face. “ Plus, she’s a hell of a lot nicer to look at.”

Joel scoffs, you giggle.

“Not sure about the whole smelling better thing,” your response comes minutes later, after Luke’s already served you a glass of wine and turned away your cash, telling you he’ll put it on Joel’s tab. “But thanks!”

Unprompted and uninvited, Luke bends over the bar and takes an exaggerated sniff. “I don’t know, smell alright to me.”

“Really? I’m not even wearing perfume, I forgot to pack any-.”

“Yeah! Go on Joel, give her a whiff, tell her she smells fine!” There’s resistance on his end, but Luke’s adamant, hand clamped on the back of Joel’s head, shoving him face first into your neck. Joel’s nose brushes against you. You hear him inhale. Exhale. Inhale again, then the urge to cross your thighs begins to nag at you. “Well?”

“Yeah, smells nice- Fine. Ya smell fine.”

“Be still my beating heart! Someone alert the press that Texas said something other than-”

Joel interrupts Luke’s dramatics, scowl on his face. “Don’t you have a job to be doin’?”

Only once the bartender is down the other end of the bar, engrossed in a heated discussion over what beer pulls a better head, does Joel speak again, sipping on his drink. Whiskey.

“So I noticed somethin’, when I was checking your bookin’ info.” You nod, urge him to continue, and take a sip of your own drink. Some country song plays over the speakers and you notice a sudden shake in Joel’s knee, his foot tapping to the beat. “Says there should be two of you in my guide team.”

“Oh,” the lump forming in your throat falls safely back into the pit of your stomach as you take another drink of wine. “Must be a printing error. You know how technology can be, always complicating things.”

“Hmm,” it’s easy to write off the awkward energy between you with the excuse of earlier events, and it’s the first bright-side you find to him walking in on your intimate bath. “Well, you know the drill for tomorrow. 7 am on that deck or I’m-”

“Docking without me, I know.”

You finish your drink first. When Joel orders himself another glass, you smile politely and turn it down. Yawn, then tell him you best head to bed.

Before you can slip out the entry, someone calls your last name. Loud enough to turn more than just your own head.

It’s Joel, approaching you, effortlessly parting crowds through the lively bar as though he is knife and, the people, butter. The loud music seems to ring louder in your ear, impeding you from hearing the words that leave his moving lips.

“What?” You call out, hands clasped over your mouth in an attempt to amplify the volume of your voice.

His response is to step closer, hands holding you in place by the waist as he leans down. A hot breath on your neck, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the soft brush of lips against your ear.

“It’s your turn to bring the coffees.”

series taglist. @auteurdelabre

[astra-ravana]

Augury: Bird Divination

Augury, also called ornithomancy, is the practice of reading birds and their behavior to divinate the past, present, and future. It is one of the oldest forms of divination, having been practiced by the ancient Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians, as well as the Celts and Native Americans alike. The reader in this case is referred to as the "augur", and reading the birds is often called "taking the auspices".

Birds are universally seen as messengers and sometimes, as psychopomps, connecting us to the other side and the divine. Augury incorporates the type of bird, the number of birds, as well as their flight patterns and behavior. One can gain powerful insight by incorporating this divination into their practice. Here's the interpretations for general types of bird, some basic movements, and more.

Bird type symbolism:

• Blue jay - Truth, communication, playful, high energy, loud

• Cardinal - Hope, joy, ancestors, loved ones, passion, warmth

• Crow - Magick, witches, transformation, power, omens, intelligence, mystery

• Dove - Peace, tranquility, love, connection, safety

• Duck - Friendship, good fortune, protection from negative energy

• Eagle - Power, leadership, freedom, manifestation, opportunity, adventure

• Falcon - Navigation, taking chances, travel, cooperation, courage, vigilance

• Goose - Love, partnership, home, protection, family

• Hawk - Spirit guides, bravery, awareness, intuition, instinct, higher perspective

• Heron - Strength, purity, longevity, knowledge, good judgment, transcendence, patience

• Hummingbird - The Fae, creativity, bliss, love, beauty, speed, rest is needed

• Kestrel - Consideration, stability, vitality, opportunities

• Owl - The gods, wisdom intuition, spiritual exploration, the unknown, observation, intelligence

• Raven - Mystery, magick, the Fae, knowledge, mischief, death

• Robin - Luck, prosperity, fertility, new beginnings, good things, rewards

• Sparrow - New love, relationships, team work, productivity

• Starling - Communication, adaptability, community, fun, freedom

• Stork - Longevity, fertility, new life, prosperity, wisdom, luck

• Swan - Grace, beauty, music, poetry, creativity, loyalty, partnership

• Vulture - Renewal, perception, creativity, death, patience

• Woodpecker - Hard work, advantage attention, progress, determination

Movement

Directions:

• Towards – Reception

• Away – Depletion

Crossing your path:

• An bird crossing your paths means boundaries.

• Crossing from left to right – Minor achievement

• Crossing from right to left – Minor obstacle

Diagonal:

• A movement diagonally means transformation.

• Lower right to upper left diagonal – Weak obstacle

• Lower left to upper right diagonal – Weak achievement

• Upper right to lower left diagonal – Major obstacle

• Upper left to lower right diagonal – Major achievement

Stationary:

• Stationary means foundation.

• Stationary front – Stability

• Stationary back – Stagnation

• Stationary left – Separation

• Stationary right – Unification

Rotation:

• Clockwise – Major completion

• Counterclockwise – Minor completion

Sides:

• Left - Bad

• Right - Good

Number of Birds:

• 1 - The self, beginnings, manifestation, physical action

• 2 - Security, partnership, balance, duality

• 3 - Adventure, communication, trinity, raising consciousness, strength

• 4 - Wisdom, stability, home, protection

• 5 - Change, creativity, romance, humor and drama

• 6 - Peace, self-love, equilibrium, health

• 7 - Psychic ability, intuition, spiritual awakening, soul mates

• 8 - Transformation, finances, infinite possibility, struggle/delay

• 9 - Lessons, education, courage, pioneering energy

• 10 - Completion, higher powers, alignment, legacy

• 11 - Good luck, wishes granted, new friends, joy

• 12 - Introspection, other realms, the dead, the shadow

Finding feathers:

• Gray – A time of peace is arriving

• White – Focus on your spirituality

• Black – You are protected

• Brown – Strength and courage

• Red – Find and use your spiritual gifts

• Orange – You will be successful

• Yellow – You are on the right path

• Green – Healing is coming

• Blue – Use your voice

• Purple – Expand your psychic abilities

• Pink – Love, romance, or pregnancy

• Striped – Change will happen soon

• Spotted – Release the past

[semper-legens]

107. The Thieves of Ostia, by Caroline Lawrence

Owned: Yes Page count: 190 My summary: In Ancient Rome, young Flavia Gemina is on the tail of a mystery. With her new found friends - ex-slave girl Nubia, Jonathan the asthmatic Jewish boy, and Lupus the mute beggar - she’s trying to work out who is killing her town’s dogs, and why? My rating: 4/5

Yep, it seems that every time I read something unrelated but set in Ancient Rome, I get that hankering to reread the Roman Mysteries. If you weren't around for my posts about it last time, this is a kids' book series, historical fiction set in the first year of Emperor Titus' reign, around 79-80 CE. It follows a young Roman girl, Flavia Gemina, and her friends as they solve mysteries and slowly get embroiled in the politics and major happenings of the time. It was reasonably mature for the demographic at which it was aimed, never wanting to talk down to its 8-12 year old audience, but nonetheless presenting information in a way that was suitable for that demographic, not being too gory or including things that were too complex to get into. It was my gateway drug, not just to historical fiction, but to history in general when I was a kid. This series brought its setting alive for me in a way that I had never encountered before, and I hold it very dear to my heart. And you know what, it holds up. Sure, its prose is simple as befits a book for children, but there's an honesty to it that I really appreciate, and a complexity that suits its audience perfectly. There's a lot of these books, so buckle in - though I will be reading other stuff in between, for a palate cleanser.

Our cast of children offers a very balanced look at Roman (or, I guess, Ostian) life in this time period. Flavia is a freeborn, middle-class-equivalent girl, the 'everyman' of the setting. But Jonathan is Jewish (and Christian) and his father is not a Roman citizen, Nubia is enslaved, and Lupus is a homeless, mute orphan who we will later learn is Greek. And Flavia herself, as a girl, is hardly the most privileged in Roman society, though she still has her free, relatively high birth to fall back on. They're all children, and in one way or another they're all outcasts. It's an interesting choice to make, showing a microcosm of the diversity of people one might find in Italy at this time; Lawrence could easily have shown all the characters as being white Italians, but instead we have a mixture of people from across the Roman Empire. And there's a mix of personalities on display here too. Flavia is smart and bossy, Jonathan is morose, Nubia is quiet and empathetic, and Lupus is cheeky and exuberant. I particularly enjoy how full of character Lupus is despite being unable to talk or (in this book) communicate through anything other than gesture and mime. It's a well-rounded, well-balanced group of protagonists that will naturally invite its audience to relate heavily to at least one of them. (When I was a kid, I related to Flavia the most, though I wanted to be more like Nubia. These days, it's Jonathan.)

And much of Roman life is on display here. We get a child's crash course to a lot of concepts relating to life in this time and place, but as I said in the intro, there's nuance here. Of course Flavia is going to have compassion for Nubia, a girl her age being sold, and buy her to set her free, but it's noteworthy that Flavia isn't really anti-slavery (her family has an enslaved cook and doorman), she's just empathetic. The potential dangers Nubia faces are clear; she's explicitly sold naked, and Flavia's father Marcus uncomfortably tells her that someone might buy Nubia as a 'wife'. The implication is clear for anyone with the knowledge to see it, though the narrative never dwells there. And Marcus deflects this, too, saying that eleven or twelve is not too old for a slave - something that certainly grossed me out when I read this as a kid. Slavery is seen as a fact of life and normalised by Flavia, but the narrative makes it clear that it was an awful position for anyone to be in, and isn't itself pro-slavery, which is a good balance for this sort of historical fiction. It's a mature approach for a series intended for 8-12 year olds, and I commend it for that the same way I commend Animorphs or Jacqueline Wilson's books for the same things.

The one thing that's really giving me pause when I look back on it is this series' treatment of Christianity. Now, this is 79 CE - Jesus Christ is just fading out of living memory, and the Roman authorities are not big fans of the cult of Christianity. Jonathan's family is Christian, but as is historically accurate, they're Jewish as well. In later books, we see them celebrate Jewish holidays and pray in a Jewish fashion, they just follow Jesus Christ as well. Christianity has not yet diverged into how we would recognise it today. Our earliest sign that Jonathan's family is Jewish is when they're eating at Flavia's house - they're served snails, and Jonathan's sister Miriam asks their father Mordecai if it's permitted. The thing is that the series seems to want to push Christianity in a way that's a little uncomfortable for me in the present day. It's not something child!me would have noticed - I am a Christian and was raised Christian, and read a lot of books for Christian kids - but I can't help but notice how prevalent Christianity is here. Even in this early section - Flavia still follows the Roman gods, but they pray to the Christian god at one point for their sins, even if Flavia doesn't quite get the 'monotheism' thing. (She seems to treat Jonathan's god as if he's just a separate, foreign god as opposed to being The Only One like Jonathan.) It feels like it has an agenda, and it's an uncomfortable footnote in what is otherwise a great series.

Next, more Mysteries, as the kids take a holiday to Pompeii.

[stuffnthangsss]

Gravity Falls x Percy Jackson: GF Characters as Demigods Pt. 2

See pt. 1 here (Mabel!), pt. 3 (Dipper), pt. 4 Side Characters, pt. 5 (Fiddleford & Lil Gideon)

Then, I thought of Stan and at first I was like, he could be a centaur like Chiron?? BUT then I thought of the angsty idea of him being a Hermes kid!

Stan being kind of crook and thus a child of the god of THIEVES/TRADE/WEALTH/MERCHANTS/TRICKERY/mischief/cunning?? It works.

ALSO, in relation to the PJO lore of Luke being a Hermes kid and traitor—though it’s been a minute so I don’t remember if Hermes kids had a bad rep after the Luke stuff (I do not think Stan is a traitor by any means)

BUT him being a Hermes kid adding to the reasons why his dad despises and distrusts him?? :((

Hermes also being a “protector” and one of Stan’s biggest character traits is being a natural protector.

Hermes the god of travelers as well and we know Stan traveled all over the U.S and a little outside of it. It fits so well to me. Stan being a child of the patron of travelers—explaining why he was able to survive all those years on the road, his luck with gambling (again, Hermes & luck/wealth). Seriously I need someone else to talk to this about.

Stan being a kid of Hermes (god of messages) explaining how he was able to understand Ford’s journals.

Him being a child of Hermes also explained why he was so ardent in traveling with Ford to explore !! SOMEONE HOLD ME ILL CRY?

Stan’s biggest dream of traveling the seas whereas Ford’s being knowledge/education :’)

Thusssss… FORD as a child of Athena. Wisdom, inventions-but moreso handicraft. Think of Daedalus in PJO.

Him inheriting Athena’s sometimes cold/stern nature. So ig in this au, the stans are half-brothers?? Explaining why Stan’s mom is partial to Stan ☹️. Whereas his father prefers Ford, like he liked Athena. (Caryn Pines loves her sons, related or not). Also ig Shermie’s a regular kid in this AU LMAOO. Would explain why the Stan Twins got into all sorts of supernatural stuff alongside the mystery twins!

Ford being a kid of the god of weaving (Athena) —> bonding time with Mabel (kid of the patron of arts, Apollo) and her crafts/knitting, etc.

EDIT: my friend texted me saying how even tho they know Stanford’s from NJ, Ford fits Athena’s Roman side sm better. :0

Pls share ur thoughts <33.

[sephsbat]

The chthonic deities were a group of deities in ancient Greek and Roman religions that were associated with the underworld, the earth, fertility, and the dead.

The term "chthonic" comes from the Greek word "chthonios", meaning "of the earth" or "of the underworld".

Some of the most well-known chthonic deities include:

Hades/Pluto - the god of the underworld

Persephone/Proserpina - the queen of the underworld and goddess of spring growth

Demeter/Ceres - the goddess of agriculture, fertility, and the harvest

Hecate/Trivia - the goddess of witchcraft, crossroads, and the underworld

Gaia/Terra - the primordial goddess of the earth

Worshippers of chthonic deities often conducted their rituals and made offerings at night or in caves, crevices, or other entrances to the underworld. Animal sacrifices, libations (liquid offerings), and burned offerings were common ways to honor these deities. Chthonic cults and mysteries, such as the Eleusinian Mysteries, were also important aspects of ancient Greek religion.

The chthonic deities were seen as powerful forces that could influence the fertility of the earth, the cycle of life and death, and the well-being of the community. As a result, honoring and appeasing these deities was an important part of religious life in the ancient Greek and Roman world.

How people worshipped these deities

1. Sacrifices: Chthonic deities were often worshipped through blood sacrifices, typically of dark-colored animals like black sheep or bulls. These sacrifices were usually conducted at night or in special underground temples and shrines.

2. Libations: Worshippers would pour out offerings of liquids like honey, milk, water, or wine as libations to the chthonic deities, often pouring the offerings into the ground or into cracks in the earth.

3. Mysteries and Initiations: Many chthonic cults, such as the Eleusinian Mysteries, involved secretive initiation rites and rituals that were only accessible to initiated members. Which were a set of initiation rites associated with the worship of Demeter and Persephone.

4. Chthonic Symbols: Chthonic deities were often associated with symbols like snakes, torches, keys, and the color black, which represented their connection to the underworld and the earth.

5. Funerary Rites: Chthonic deities were closely tied to death and the afterlife, and their worship was often incorporated into funerary rites and the veneration of the dead.

[funnypages]

Conclave: The Surprise Movie Recommendation of October

So this is not at all what I would usually share on here, but if you looking for a movie to see with some of you older family, especially with the holidays coming up next few months, I definitely recommend you check out Conclave, a political thriller/mystery set during the election of a new pope, based of a 2016 novel by Robert Harris

Basic plot: Cardinal Thomas Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes) is a cardinal of the liberal faction in the Roman Catholic Church, who receives news that the current pope (unnamed but heavily modeled after current Pope Francis) has died. As Dean of the College of Cardinals, it is Lawrence's responsibility to organize and manage the papal conclave during which the cardinals of the Church will be sequestered within the Sistine Chapel and elect the new pope.

Going into the conclave the 4 main candidates for pope are:

Cardinal Goffredo Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto) - An Italian cardinal from the extremely conservative traditionalist faction of the church, who wishes to undue all reforms the Catholic Church has initiated since the 1960s; and is a racist, fundamentalist, homophobe. The closest thing to a villain the movie has

Cardinal Joshua Adeyemi (Lucian Msamati) - A Nigerian cardinal, who while a liberal on economic issues and not wanting to roll back all reforms, is a hardliner against acceptance of LGBT+ issues.

Cardinal Joseph Tremblay (John Lithgow) - A Canadian Conservative (although arguably more of a centrist), who has been machinating for months prior to the old pope's death to be elected, and will do anything to make sure it happens

Cardinal Aldo Bellini (Stanley Tucci) - An American cardinal who is a friend of Lawrence and the late pope. The candidate for the liberal/reform faction; he wants to improve relations with non-Christian religions, moderate the church on abortion and LGBT+ issues, and open to allowing women in the clergy. Although more sympathetic than the conservative candidates, we come to discover he is just as power hungry as them for the papacy.

As Lawrence tries to manage the election (while also supporting his friend as neutral as possible), he finds himself trying to investigate conspiracies, coverups, blackmail; and the appearance of a mysterious cardinal nobody has met before, but was appointed by the pope in secret prior to his death.

The movie is incredibly well acted and shot; and while quite critical of the Catholic Church at times; quite sympathetic in actual religious belief. I have seen some very pissed of reviews complaining about it being "woke" but while it is definitely on the side of the liberal faction, both Tremblay and Adeyemi get sympathetic moments. Although the "woke" accusations probably come mostly from the final twist. Won't give it away, but the movie says Queer Rights.

If you are still curious, I recommend checking out the trailer. It actually does a really good job of not spoiling anything but mixing around lines and scenes.

[gingersnaptaff]

Comprehensive list of couples that need therapy - Mabinogion edition:

1. Rhiannon and Pwyll - Famously stupid dude marries famously smart woman. Nothing bad happens. (Oh, ur son's mysteriously disappeared, and ur wife's maids say ur wife ATE HIM?! Punish ur wife for seven years, make her become a horse, and give people rides like an uber. Don't think twice about this.) 6/10. I think couples therapy would probably help. At the very least Pwyll might fuckin think about things.

2. Branwen and Matholwch - Um, well, their marriage causes a war. And Matholwch is an ASS. I don't think couples therapy would've saved them. I think Branwen should've been allowed to fuckin deck him. 9/10

3. Brân and the Pair Dadeni. Um, the couple that slays together stays together. WAIT! NO, NOT LIKE THAT! WKDKDKF (The Pair Dadeni got blown up. They cannot have couples therapy.) 0/10

4. Manawydan and Rhiannon - They Do Not need couples therapy. They are very well-adjusted. Manawydan makes shoes, and Rhiannon just chills. They talk a lot. Rhiannon calls Manawydan a bad bud to Pryderi, though so there is that. In his defence, Pryderi was stuck to a golden bowl at the time and unable to speak. 4/10

5. Cigfa and Pryderi - Both idiots whom I love. Both snooty. Pryderi takes offence to shoemaking, and Cigfa takes offence to farming—match made in heaven. 0/10

6. Gwydion and Gilfaethwy - They fucked. They're brothers and they fucked. Their uncle made them become animals and they fucked. I think they just need therapy, never mind couples therapy. 100/10

7. Blodeuwedd and Lleu - Woman made out of flowers marries man who doesn't pay attention to her. Woman kills man. Man becomes eagle, and woman becomes owl. It's a tale as old as time. Yes, they NEED couples therapy. 1000/10

8. Arthur and Gwenhwyfar - Honestly, they kinda need it. There's no Lancelot, but Arthur is still an idiot. Plus, he has a list of worldly possessions that are super important to him, and his wife is like seventh. 5/10

9. Cai and Bedwyr - They do not need couples therapy. They just need naps because they're tired of dealing with Arthur's shit. 0/10

10. Peredur and Angharad - Manic pixie dream boy and exasperated golden-handed woman. They're also cousins? 6/10

11. Geraint and Enid - These two need therapy. Geraint so he can stop being an abusive sick and Enid because she's spent so long putting up with Geraint's dickishness. 10/10

12. Owain and Luned (and, by extension, the Lady of the Well) - Do they need therapy? Not they just need to work out their misunderstandings. Still, therapy would kinda benefit them. 4/10

13. Macsen and Elen - Roman Emperor who saw pretty lady in dream. He needs therapy. 7/10

14. Gwenhwyfar and Edern ap Nudd - MY GOD, THEY NEED THERAPY! Edern sending a dwarf to whip Gwen's lady? Edern whipping Geraint? Insulting the woman who is sometimes seen to be his lover? BRUH, 10/10

15. Gwyn ap Nudd and Creiddylad - Ehudjfjfjf Gwyn tries to kidnap Creiddylad and then is forced to fight for her. He kills a man in the battle that Creiddylad's fiancé wages to get her back and then makes the son of the man EAT HIS HEART?!?!? (Gwyn still has a cute dog, though) A million out of 10.

16. Dylan ail Don and the waves - 0/10. Dylan is in his lane. Moisturised. Flourishing. (Just don't do an Uncle Gofannon and smash his head in with a hammer.)

(This is supposed to be funny. Pls don't yell at me.)