#who just takes from closed cultures and practices

[papayainsectorone]

Back To Sector One

Free Practice (Part 2)

content: childhood-to-teenagers, rivals-to-lovers, coming-of-age, karting culture

word count: 5,4 k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

back to sector one - long fic - 1.5k special

series masterlist

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The metallic bleachers are half-full, warmed by the afternoon sun and humming faintly beneath your feet with each shift of weight from the spectators above.

The sounds of the track curl around you like smoke, engine whines rising and falling with the laps, a sharp voice from a race marshal’s megaphone, the crunch of gravel under cheap sneakers and heavy boots alike. You hear the murmur of other people, too loud in their pride or too sharp in their critique and the occasional burst of laughter from younger kids too small to understand what this race means to the ones behind the wheel.

You don’t hear your own breath. Not over the white noise in your chest.

There’s a sweating water bottle cradled loosely in your fingers, the chill of it fading—half-empty and forgotten, but you keep holding it anyway, like it’s something to do with your hands. You can’t remember when you stopped drinking from it. Somewhere between the third lap and the hairpin turn that’s had your spine stiffened like a taut wire for the past ten minutes.

You tell yourself to sit. Stay calm. Blend in. Be another spectator with a decent seat and a passing interest.

But your body won’t cooperate. It’s like muscle memory is stronger than logic.

By lap nine, your legs are jittering beneath you. Your knees bounce in uneven time, heart climbing a little higher every time the pack tightens into a corner. Your lips part unconsciously as you follow the red-and-white blur you’ve been tracking from the start, holding your breath every time the kart dives into an overtake like it’s a game of chicken.

You don’t remember the exact moment you moved from the stands to the fence, but you’re there, close enough to smell the scorched rubber and engine oil in the dry summer air. Your hands wrap around the chain-link, fingers slipping into the cool gaps in the metal like you’ve done a hundred times before. Like this is where you belong.

A cloud of fine dust lifts as the karts roar past. It clings to your clothes, the edge of your lashes. Your eyes narrow under the harsh glare, sun flashing off the glossy helmets and the flutter of sponsor logos on the banners behind them.

But you’re not watching them all. Not really.

Your eyes find the one kart every time—the kart with the red nose and the wide rear swing that looks almost too loose around the tight bends. Number 81. The lines are aggressive but calculated, like instinct is driving more than strategy. The driver takes risks. Not out of arrogance, but out of want. You can see it in the way they breathe into the throttle, the millisecond-late braking, the sharp twitch of her head before they make a move.

They drive like you did—back when it was still fun. Back when hunger and hope weren’t so tangled up with heartbreakand struggles.

You exhale, slowly. It’s the kind of breath you didn’t know you were holding until it leaves you hollow.

And then you smile.

Not the closed-off, private kind that’s meant only for yourself. This one breaks onto your face without permission. It’s open, a little proud, a little helpless. Visible. Soft around the edges. It makes your cheeks warm before the sun can take credit.

And you know people are looking now. Maybe not at you, exactly, not at the woman by the fence whose expression just cracked wide open, but at the driver who’s about to win this race.

A moment passes. Then a voice, low and gentle, threaded with something like a smile:

“You smile just the same way you did when you beat my ass on this track the year you won the championship.”

Your breath catches. You don’t say anything at first.

You just look at him. Really look. And it’s strange—how easily the years fall away in the space between two heartbeats.

Oscar Piastri. Right here. Flesh and breath and sunlit grin.

He’s watching you with that same quiet intensity he used to carry on the grid—focused, but never harsh. Like he’s scanning your face for traces of the girl he used to know, and finding them. His expression shifts, softens, like he’s relieved by what he sees.

Your lips part, his name catching on your tongue. “...Oscar?” Half a question. All surprise. Utterly real.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe you both do. All you know is that suddenly you’re in his arms, the rough fabric of his hoodie scratching your cheek, the smell of dust and sunscreen and something just so unmistakably Oscar pulling you under.

“Shit,” he says, pulling back enough to look at you. “How long’s it been?”

You blink, a laugh puffing out like a bubble between you. “Ten years? More?”

“Twelve?” he guesses, tilting his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to match it to a faded version from memory.

You smile. “You’re tall now.”

He grins. “And you’re still tiny.”

You roll your eyes, but it feels good. Like slipping into an old kart you used to know by heart. The way he’s looking at you—soft around the edges, warm and a little awed—makes you feel sixteen again in the worst and best ways.

“You disappeared,” he says gently. Not accusing, just noting it like a change in the weather. “One day you were in every race, beating half the grid, and the next…”

You shrug. “Racing didn’t want me the same way I wanted it. Or the way it wanted you.”

He nods, mouth pulling into a quiet line. Like he understands. Like he also knows there's more you're not saying yet.

He glances around. “This place hasn’t changed.”

“Neither have you,” you say, stealing a glance.

He raises an eyebrow. “I hope that’s a compliment.”

You smirk. “You’re still a smug little shit. Just taller.”

He laughs—and it’s the same laugh as before. The one that used to spill out of him after long, brutal races, when you’d both collapse in the grass and compare bruises.

“Do you come here often?” he asks.

You hesitate for a second, then nod. “Yeah. I—I actually spend a lot of time here.”

His brows lift slightly. “So you’re a coach or something?”

A small smile ghosts across your lips. “Yeah… something like that.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing with sudden curiosity. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets. “Media thing fell through this morning. Had the afternoon off… I don’t know. I just kind of ended up here.” His eyes flick to yours.

There’s a beat of silence between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s thoughtful. Familiar in a way only old friends can be. Your eyes drift back to the track, and so do his, the two of you leaning just slightly against the barrier. Not touching. But close.

You both watch as the pack coils into the final sector, a knot of noise and speed jostling through turns that were never meant to be shared. The karts are dancing with danger now, each driver pushing just a fraction deeper into the corners, flirting with the edge of grip. It’s the part of the race where instinct overrules caution. Where the bold rise, and the reckless fall.

“They’re scrappy,” Oscar says, arms folded as he nods toward the grid. “Couple of good kids out there.”

You glance over at him, then back to the track. “Mm-hm.”

“Number 42—clean lines. Bit too cautious on the throttle, especially on corner exit, but they’re smart. Measured.”

You hum in agreement. “He’s got good instincts. Just needs to figure out where he can lean harder. He’s almost there.”

Oscar’s gaze sweeps forward again, tracking the shifting pack. “But number 81... that one’s different.”

You feel the corner of your mouth twitch before you can stop it. The kind of smile that slips out when you’re not guarding anything.

“Oh?” you ask, careful. Teasing. “Because of the number?”

He shoots you a sideways grin. “Not just because it’s the best number—obviously.” A pause, then he gestures toward the track. “That little guy? He’s got fire. I watched him take the inside line at turn seven like it owed him something. No hesitation. No flinch. That kind of driving—it’s rare.”

You don’t respond right away. Just nod once, quiet and full. “Yeah.”

Oscar chuckles softly, shaking his head with the kind of admiration you can’t fake. “Read something about him this morning, actually. Didn’t get to the full article, just skimmed the headline... but I think his name’s Ollie?”

Your fingers tighten around the water bottle before you even realize you’re doing it. A small, automatic gesture—so subtle you doubt he notices.

Your expression doesn’t shift. Not yet.

“Yeah,” you say. It comes out simple. Soft.

The pack barrels into the final lap, engines howling into a higher register. The kind of sound that used to live under your skin. The karts tighten again into formation, a compression of bodies and ambition. Elbows flash. Tires twitch. Some kids play it safe. Others don’t know how.

You don’t blink.

Number 81 lunges into the final corner with the same precise aggression you used to feel in your fingertips. The kart carves the inside line with inches to spare, barely enough space to breathe, and then pulls ahead clean.

No overcorrection. No stutter in commitment. Just sheer, sharp instinct.

The checkered flag rises.

And falls.

81 crosses first.

A perfect pass. Timed like it was written into their bones.

Oscar lets out a low whistle beside you. “Damn,” he says, genuinely impressed. “That was beautiful.”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

You just watch the kart coast into the cool-down lap, red and white paint streaked with dust, the driver’s fist lifting in one small, triumphant motion. Not for the crowd. Just for themselves.

There’s a lump forming in your throat. It tastes like pride and memory and something that still stings.

You swallow it down and let the smile come. Smaller this time. Not for show. Not even for Oscar.

Just for you.

Private. And real.

Oscar nudges your elbow with a light touch. It’s casual, but it sends a ripple through your whole arm.

“You want to go down to the paddock with me?” he asks, voice softer now, almost tentative beneath the noise around you.

You nod before the question fully settles. “Yeah.”

The bleachers behind you are already thinning, the clatter of plastic seats and scuffed shoes filling the lull between races. A voice crackles over a radio somewhere. Kids in too-big racing suits run past in packs, helmets tucked under their arms, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline and propably sugar. Someone pops open a cooler. Someone else yells for a missing timing sheet. The smell of petrol and sunburn settles into the dust.

The paddock is alive.

You and Oscar move through it like ghosts, untethered, not in a hurry. The world churns around you in high-speed color, but you’re suspended just slightly outside it. As if some invisible thread has pulled the two of you into a slower orbit.

It’s strange, this kind of familiarity. Being here again with him.

Everything looks the same: the oil-stained gravel underfoot, the clipped instructions of mechanics, the whine of a socket gun cutting through the air. The sounds and smells crawl up your spine like old music. But he’s different. Or maybe you are.

There’s weight to the way he walks now. Not arrogance, not swagger. Just a quiet awareness, like he knows how people look at him, and how to carry that without letting it spill. His shoulders sit higher. His stride is longer. The stubble along his jaw catches in the light and glints like grit.

He moves like someone used to winning.

He breathes in deeply through his nose, as if the scent of fuel and sunbaked rubber means something. Then he says, almost surprised by the words as they come out, “I missed this noise.”

You glance over at him. “The chaos?”

He smiles a little, but it doesn’t reach his eyes yet. “No. The heartbeat of it. The tension right before the lights go out. The nerves you try to swallow. The dirt. The silence just after the engines stop, when all you can hear is your own breathing.”

He pauses. “You can’t really get that in F1. It’s mostly data now. PR briefings. Tire blankets. Everything’s a bit scripted. Most don´t breathe until the sim data says they can.”

You smirk, nudging him gently with your elbow this time. “You sound nostalgic.”

“I am,” he says, looking at you again. This time, the smile is real. “I didn’t realize how much until just now.”

You don’t answer. Not right away. Because part of you is wondering what, exactly, he’s nostalgic for.

Ahead of you, the drivers are peeling off their helmets. Some are flushed and triumphant. Others slump with disappointment. Dust clings to their suits, their brows. A mechanic shouts for someone to tighten a fuel cap. Parents hold water bottles like peace offerings.

And there—Number 81, surrounded by the chaos, being waved toward the podium. The suit is streaked with dirt, hair sticking to sweat-damp temples, eyes lit up like fireworks. You can tell they´re still buzzing—pure voltage beneath skin. You know that high. You used to live for it.

Oscar watches her move, that little smile tugging at his mouth again.

“I want to talk to that kid.”

You grip the water bottle a little tighter, your fingers slipping against the condensation.

Oscar doesn’t notice. He’s still watching 81. Still smiling.

And the secret behind your teeth presses harder.

Then, just as Oscar takes a step forward, number 81 breaks away from the cluster of kids. Helmet tucked under one arm, wild curls bouncing loose around her face, cheeks flushed with effort and joy. Scanning the crowd, not for cameras or officials but for you.

And then they run.

Not toward the podium. Not toward the announcer with the mic or the volunteers handing out medals.

Straight toward you.

“Mom!” she yells, grinning so wide her face can barely contain it. “Did you see how I took turn nine?!”

Oscar freezes mid-step.

It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t gasp or stumble. He just stops—utterly still, like someone pressed pause. His head turns slowly, eyes darting from your daughter to you and back again.

You feel the air shift. Like gravity has tilted.

Ollie launches into your arms, all elbows and joy and sweat-damp fabric. She wraps around your waist like it’s second nature, helmet still clutched proudly in one hand. You bend down to meet her, dropping your forehead briefly to the top of her head. The smell of dust and sunlight clings to her curls. Your eyes squeeze shut for half a second.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. She’s yours.

And behind you, Oscar doesn’t move.

He’s staring. Struck silent, like the world just opened a door he didn’t even know was there. Something unspoken flickers across his face—confusion, disbelief, awe. And something quieter beneath it, something heavier.

Like grief for time already lost.

You look up, breath catching in your chest as you meet his eyes. His expression is unreadable for a beat too long—his mouth slightly parted, brows lifted, like he’s still trying to process what just happened.

The edges of your smile soften. There's an apology in it. And something more tender, more exposed. A kind of truth you’ve been holding close for years.

“Yeah I saw everything baby,” you say, voice quiet, steady. “Come on, say hi, Ollie.”

Oscar doesn’t say anything at first.

His eyes stay wide, flicking between you and the girl at your side, as if his brain is buffering—trying to catch up with what he’s just seen. You can almost hear the gears grinding. For a second, he looks completely knocked off balance, like someone just yanked the floor out from under him and replaced it with a truth he hadn’t even considered. His gaze lands on Ollie again, this time noticing what he hadn’t before: the curl of her lashes, the slope of her cheek, the way her mouth curves when she smiles. There’s recognition blooming in his expression, not because he’s met her before, but because some part of her already feels familiar.

Then it fully hits him.

Not just a kid.

Your kid.

And a girl.

His breath catches. He shifts slightly, as though steadying himself.

Slowly—almost carefully—he crouches down in front of her, like she’s something precious and untouchable. His eyes are still wide, but there’s awe there now too. Wonder. And maybe the beginnings of something more fragile. A what-if echoing quietly under his skin.

“I’m Oscar,” he says, gently. His voice sounds different now. More tentative, more real. “An old friend of your mom’s.”

Ollie squints at him, tilting her head like she’s sizing him up. Really looking this time.

Her brows draw together in that intense, too-smart way she always gets when she’s figuring something out. You can practically see her brain working through a list of facts and memories and half-heard mentions. Her eyes flick to you. Then back to him.

And then—

Her jaw drops.

She gasps like she’s just unwrapped a rare, limited-edition part she didn’t even know she wanted. “You drive! Like—Formula One drive! You’re in the McLaren! Mom! Why didn’t you say he was that Oscar?!”

You laugh, holding your hands up in mock surrender. “I figured you’d figure it out eventually.”

Ollie practically vibrates with excitement, gripping her helmet tighter to her chest like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the ground. “You won Spa last year! And Monza before that! And the quali lap in Japan, that was sick!”

Oscar’s jaw slackens, eyes still on her. Not just in surprise, but in total disbelief. You can see it now—the look of someone who just realized they missed an entire chapter of a story they thought they knew. His face splits into a grin, crooked and stunned. “You know your stuff.”

“She watches everything,” you say, nudging Ollie’s shoulder with a soft smile. “Sometimes twice.”

Ollie nods solemnly, like this is obvious. “I make notes.”

That breaks something in Oscar. He laughs—really laughs. A full-bodied, unfiltered sound that makes his shoulders shake. “You make notes?”

“Duh,” Ollie says, completely deadpan. “How else am I supposed to beat the boys here?”

Oscar tilts his head, eyebrows raised, visibly impressed. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal, though her cheeks are pink with pride. “I’m gonna be better than all of them. Even you.”

“Oh?” Oscar leans in a little closer, mock-offended, eyes twinkling. “Better than me?”

She nods, serious as ever. “One hundred percent. You’re cool, but… I’m small and sneaky. And I have strategy.”

Laughter spills out of you before you can stop it. Oscar joins in a beat later, both of you caught in that same breathless, joyful kind of laugh that only happens when someone smaller than you utterly and completely owns the room.

Oscar throws his hands up, laughing like he’s been properly defeated. “I surrender. You’ve already won.”

Ollie beams like a medal ceremony just started for her alone. She lifts her trophy high above her head, like it’s irrefutable proof of everything she just said.

Oscar looks up at you then, still crouched beside her. And something in his face changes again—softens, deepens. Like the pieces have finally clicked into place. He’s not just seeing her anymore. He’s seeing you. The life you’ve built. The strength it took to build it.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than you mean to.

Then Ollie is off again, darting toward a cluster of kids near the podium, her trophy still clutched tight. You’re left holding her helmet, still warm from the race, still smelling faintly of sweat and rubber and sun.

And beside you, Oscar rises slowly. Quiet. Processing.

Like someone standing in a room that just got bigger.

“She’s... something else,” Oscar says softly, still watching Ollie dart through the paddock, trophy clutched like a lifeline.

You nod, your voice quiet, the smile behind it edged with something tender. “She really is.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to make you glance at him.

“I thought she was a boy,” he admits suddenly. “Earlier. When she was racing.”

You raise an eyebrow, only half-feigning offense. “Because she was too good not to be?”

Oscar stiffens, face flushing instantly. “No, that’s not—I didn’t mean—I just—You didn´t correct me.” He lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit. That’s not what I meant. I swear.”

You tilt your head, watching him fumble for the right words.

“I just didn’t know,” he says, softer now. “And yeah, she was fast. Sharp. Composed. I assumed. And I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. She’s amazing.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment, just long enough for him to sweat a little.

Then you grin and shoulder him lightly, bumping into him like you used to after podiums.

“I’m just messing with you, Osc. I know you’re not like that.”

Relief washes through his expression, loosening his shoulders. But you’re not quite done.

“You’ve never been like that,” you add, a little quieter this time. “Not back then. Not now.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And something flickers there—fondness, maybe even a touch of awe.

You smile at each other, the kind of smile that folds time in on itself. The kind that belongs to people who have always known how to read each other, even in the silence between words.

After the celebration winds down and the last of the confetti sticks to the soles of everyone's shoes, the photos are taken—trophies gleaming under the fading sun, podium banners flapping gently in the breeze—Ollie’s grin doesn’t falter. Not once. Her face is flushed with the last of the adrenaline, and her eyes have that wide, lit-up shine that only comes after a win that means something.

She bounds back toward you, her suit unzipped halfway and dragging slightly at the sleeves, tangled at the waist where her gloves are tucked. Her curls are messy under her cap, the strands frizzed and wild from the helmet, and her cheeks are still pink from the effort. But she doesn’t seem to notice any of it. She’s buzzing—pure kinetic energy in the shape of your daughter.

She stops just in front of you and Oscar, breathless and bright.

“Can he come to our tent, Mom?” she asks, eyes huge and full of hope. “I wanna show him my telemetry.”

You blink, momentarily stunned—not because she asked, but because of how easily she said it. How naturally she’s folded him into her world without hesitation, as if he’s always belonged in it. No nerves, no filter. Just excitement. Like this is the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance at Oscar.

He’s already looking at you, one brow lifted, a quiet question in his eyes. He doesn’t speak, but it’s there, clear as day. Is that okay?

You nod before your heart can catch up to the ache blooming beneath your ribs.

“Sure, baby,” you say gently. “If he doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Oscar says, gaze still fixed on you. His voice is steady now, but something about it feels more grounded than before—less like surprise, more like acceptance. “I’d like that.”

Ollie practically skips ahead, her trophy tucked in one hand, her helmet swinging wildly from the other. The gravel crunches beneath her boots, scattering dust in her wake. She’s talking to herself, probably narrating her race again, already reliving the turns she nailed and the corners she’ll take better next time.

You and Oscar trail behind her. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady.

Your shoulders aren’t quite touching, but they’re close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s presence. The silence between you is easy now—heavy with thought, maybe, but not uncomfortable.

He exhales a soft laugh. “Telemetry, huh? I don’t think I even knew how to spell that when I was her age.”

“She’s always been like this,” you say, watching Ollie dart around a corner of the tent row. “Always wants to understand everything. If there’s data to dig through, she’s already halfway through it before I sit down.”

Oscar grins. “Drives her coach crazy, huh?”

You shrug. “Something like that.”

He glances sideways at you. “She’s good.”

“She’s more than good,” you say, the words slipping out like breath.

Oscar’s eyes stay on you a second longer. “She gets that from you.”

You don’t respond, but your lips twitch with the weight of everything you could say. And everything you won’t.

The tent comes into view—familiar canvas, flapping slightly, a few track bags stacked just outside. Ollie’s already there, unzipping the flap with quick fingers, ducking inside like she’s got treasure to show.

You pause just before stepping in, the sunlight behind you casting your shadows long and side-by-side across the dirt. It’s such a small thing. But you notice it.

Inside, Ollie drops her helmet onto the bench with a soft thud and dives for her tablet like it’s sacred. The screen glows to life immediately, already loaded with lap data. Her fingers fly across it, flicking through throttle traces and braking zones like it’s second nature—like it’s a language she speaks better than anyone her age should.

“This is where I lost time,” she says, pointing at the screen with a frown. “Turn 6. I braked too early—see how the delta jumps here? But I nailed the rest of the lap. Especially turn 9.”

Oscar leans in, eyebrows lifted, genuinely engaged. “Your mid-corner speed in 9 is really strong. Most kids your age lift there. You stayed in it. That’s rare.”

Ollie beams. “I practiced that line all week. Mom walked it with me, like, a million times. She said the apex doesn’t move, but I can.”

Oscar chuckles at that, glancing back at you. His eyes are softer now. “That sounds like her.”

You hang back a few steps, arms crossed over your chest, a smile tugging at your mouth. Your heart beats somewhere far too loud for how quiet the tent is. You watch the two of them, how naturally Ollie mirrors him when he leans in, how she listens with wide eyes and absorbs everything like a sponge. And he—he’s not dumbing anything down. He’s meeting her there. Equal ground. Talking to her like she’s a driver, not just a kid.

She’s so animated. And he’s so careful with her.

They hover over her laps like engineers in the garage, voices low and full of jargon. Oscar points out tire wear trends and explains how he used to struggle with late exits on cold rubber. Ollie tells him about her pre-race rituals and how she sometimes sings to herself on the straights to keep her focus.

“Songs?” he asks, grinning.

“Mostly soundtracks,” she says, dead serious. “But sometimes just nonsense.”

He laughs. “I used to recite math equations under my breath.”

You snort without meaning to, and both their heads turn toward you.

“What?” Oscar asks, grinning. “Don’t act like you didn’t do weird stuff before lights out.”

“I focused,” you reply, lifting your brows. “Which you clearly didn’t, if I kept beating you.”

Ollie gasps dramatically. Her eyes go wide. “You beat Oscar Piastri?!”

Oscar throws his hands up in surrender. “Not often. But enough to bruise my ego.”

He looks back at her, but his next words are meant for you. “She was fast,” he says, his voice softer now. “Fast, fearless, and ruthless with overtakes. Real menace.”

You blink. The praise lands in a place you weren’t braced for. Gentle. Honest. Unforced.

It sits there in your chest, heavy and warm.

By the time the sun has dipped low behind the trees and the paddock has begun to empty into soft rustling and muffled goodbyes, the day feels like it’s exhaling. The loud part is over. All that remains are low voices, clinking tools, and the last few stragglers coiling cables and loading gear.

You’re walking Oscar toward the edge of the parking lot, the gravel crunching gently underfoot. Ollie is still back at the tent, her legs folded beneath her as she carefully lines up her gloves, focused in that post-race trance she always falls into—half come-down, half ritual. She didn’t even notice you slip away.

Oscar kicks at a loose stone as you walk, hands stuffed deep into his hoodie pockets. He keeps glancing down at the ground, then up at you, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if now is the right time. Or maybe he’s just taking small steps to avoid the silence between you turning final.

But the silence isn’t awkward. It’s warm now. Lived-in. Familiar in a way that curls at the edges of your chest like something once known, not quite forgotten.

He exhales a soft breath and glances at you sideways, a little hesitant. “I’m still in the city for a few more days,” he says, voice casual but his eyes flicking quickly to your face to gauge your reaction. “Thought maybe... I don’t know. We could actually catch up. Somewhere with less engine noise.”

You smile, and it feels easy. “Coffee sounds good.”

His face lights up just slightly—relieved, maybe, or just glad he read the moment right. “Yeah?” he says, hope tucked neatly behind the word.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He stops walking as you reach his car, stepping onto the asphalt where the dust gives way to oil-stained pavement. He fumbles briefly with the zipper of his hoodie, then pulls out his phone. “Here—can I get your number?”

You give it to him. Simple. Routine. But somehow it feels heavier than that, like you’re exchanging something more than digits. Like you’re reopening a door neither of you had dared to knock on for twelve years.

He tucks the phone away carefully, like he doesn’t want to fumble this either. “Cool,” he says, trying for nonchalant, but it doesn’t quite land. “I’ll text you.”

For a second, you both stand there—on the edge of the lot, where the sunlight is softer and the noise has faded. There’s a pause. One of those quiet, lingering moments full of potential energy. You’re not sure what to do with it.

So you move first.

You step forward and wrap your arms around him.

It’s instinctive, almost too fast. And for a flicker of a second, you wonder if it’s too much—if the weight of it will push him back, if this is still something you’re allowed to do.

But then his arms come around you, firm and warm. No hesitation.

He holds you like he means it.

And then—just for a second—he squeezes. A little tighter. Like maybe he needed it more than he thought.

“I didn’t expect this today,” he murmurs, his voice low and close to your ear. “But... it was really good to see you again.”

You press your face into his shoulder, let your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his hoodie. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You too.”

You pull back slowly, but he doesn’t go far at first. His eyes stay on yours a beat longer, like he’s trying to memorize something that might disappear when he blinks.

Then he gives you one last look, soft, crooked, half-smiling. A little bittersweet around the edges.

And he turns to climb into the car.

He waves once through the window before shifting into gear and rolling out onto the cracked tarmac, the dust kicking up faintly in his wake.

As he drives off, the breeze rises again, carrying with it the scent of sun-warmed rubber, dry earth, and something older. Something you hadn’t realized you’d buried.

The weight of old history, shaken loose.

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tag list i messed up the taglist and now it has to be fixed, so pls ask me again to be tagged and i will be setting up a permanent tag list for my babes and mutuals that always interact so kindly with my posts 🧡

[da-shrimping-station]

gonna start this off by saying that i will be ranting? sharing my thoughts? about honorifics and such in this lil game

AKA a shrimpy attempt at making sense of Michael's and Lucifer's relationship

The term Older Brother has been thrown around here and there in WHB and it's important to know that PrettyBusy is a Korean company and they use that term in multiple ways than just being your actual literal blood-related older brother.

It's the norm in Asian countries to refer to elders with honorifics, not matter what your relation is to them, related or otherwise.

The honorific you're using also indicates your closeness to said person. If someone were to address a man as Older Brother, I would immediately assume that they are close to a certain degree, unless their body language or tone of voice says otherwise.

Most Asian countries are high context cultures, aka you can't just rely on a person's words alone in order to grasp the meaning of what they're trying to communicate. Gotta look at body language, tone, nonverbal cues, etc.

Now, in WHB, the term does pop up a couple of times and each time has a different meaning. Forgive me for this part, I am relying on my pathetic shrimpy memory so I might not have all the details.

The only literal blood-related older brother we have in the game WHO IS STILL ALIVE is Minhyeok's older brother. That's it. Pretty straightforward. I'm sorry my bbg Andrealphus but your bro is dead soooooo

Next we've got the seraphim.

This is where things get messy between them. Honorifics can be both a formality and an endearment. You can call someone "older brother" out of respect as their elder and have literally no affection towards them whatsoever OR you call them by that honorific with respect and affection (platonic or familial or otherwise)

So yeah, the Seraphs using hyung as a way to refer to Lucifer could be purely out of a heirarchy/title thing since there are ranks among angels. But it can also have a more personal meaning. Like actually considering Lucifer as their older brother OR they see him as a respectable older figure.

On the other hand, someone younger can call you "older brother" and it's practically nothing to you. It's a formality, a norm, a title. The only thing you take out of it is that they recognize/respect you enough to use an honorific.

The scenario that I'm getting at is that Micheal might just be addressing Lucifer with hyung either a.) as force of habit, b.) it's his preferred title to address him with instead of Sir, or c.) the kind of affection he had for him changed over the years (it might've started out as familial but changed into something different). Or it's all of the above.

Meanwhile, for Lucifer, he takes that title quite literally. The three seraphs are his brothers, as God said so. His Father gave him siblings and that's the only way he sees them as. It's his duty to care for and treat them like a brother should.

The argument of God being their creator and therefore it makes them actually related is lowkey questionable as fuck cuz God made the devils too. The entirety of Hell would be considered incestuous if you apply the same logic. It would also make Adam and Eve incestuous.

Different people can have different perspectives on what their relationship w the other is. Honorifics can be a way to further show that disparity. Same word but having different meanings between two people using them.

That difference in perspective can be a source of conflict, regardless if it's for shipping or if you just wanna complicate their situation further.

BEFORE YOU CALL ME AN INCEST LOVING FUCKER

dawg im asian. in high school, the lower years had crushes on their upperclassmen who are reffered to as "Older Brother/Sister"

yeah you wanna date that Older Brother from class 4-C who's great at guitar

yeah that Older Sister from 3-A looks so pretty and confident that you cant help but have a crush on her

yeah you can get your heart broken if that Older Brother you like only sees you as a younger sibling regardless of how close you and are how much you hint towards your romantic feelings for him

your Oppa, Noona, Unnie, Hyung, Onee-san, Onii-san, Ate, Kuya, etc don't have one and done meanings. it varies a lot and you cant just be narrowminded and take it at face value.

[midbluecrescent]

Pick a Pile: How do people perceive you?

Pile 1

People see you as someone who shines. You bring a light, fun, and positive energy that makes others feel uplifted. There's something so vibrant about your presence, you’re often seen as witty, exciting, and full of life. Many find your sense of humor refreshing and your confidence inspiring. You say what you think, and you’re not afraid to be honest. People admire how sharp and articulate you are, especially when your humor carries intellectual undertones. At the same time, some people might not take you seriously at first. For some of you, your humor can make them assume you’re always lighthearted. But when you speak your truth, it hits hard. You have a gift for clarity and directness that can catch people off guard.

You’re quick to act, someone who doesn’t overthink forever. You evaluate things fast, decide, and move. Because of this, others might come to you when they want a quick and smart opinion. There’s also this vibe that you’re super online or always tuned into pop culture and random brain-rot humor, and people love that about you. But not everyone feels comfortable opening up to you emotionally. Some might feel like you wouldn’t understand their emotional depth, or worry you’ll be too blunt or analytical. It’s not that you’re cold, you just might come off as too rational or hard to reach in matters of the heart.

Thank you for reading! If this resonates with you, i can do a paid tarot reading for you with affordable prices! ^^

Pile 2

You have such a warm, soft, and inviting energy. People feel safe around you, like they can open up emotionally without fear of being judged. You give off gentle, caring energy that makes people feel like they’re talking to someone who truly gets them. You might have “boyfriend/girlfriend material” vibes, not just romantic, but nurturing, emotionally in tune, and comforting. There’s also something childlike or whimsical about you, not in a negative way, but in the sense that you find joy in small things. You might romanticize life, see beauty in the everyday, and carry a quiet optimism that draws people in.

From the outside, some people think you’re incredibly lucky, that you have supportive friendships, strong family bonds, or a “perfect” love life (even if that’s not how you feel inside). You’re admired, even if people don’t say it out loud. But at the same time, some may underestimate you. They might think you’re “just” sweet or pretty, or assume you’re not serious or capable in work or practical matters. Sometimes this comes from jealousy, sometimes from projection. But it doesn’t reflect who you actually are, just how others frame your softness.

Thank you for reading! If this resonates with you, i can do a paid tarot reading for you with affordable prices! ^^

Pile 3

People see you as strong, reserved, and incredibly reliable. You carry yourself with quiet power, like someone who works hard, holds their own, and doesn’t ask for help often. There’s a sense of stability and focus around you. You might seem intimidating or emotionally closed-off to others at first, but that’s because of your strong boundaries and composed energy. You give “hard to approach but highly respected” vibes. People don’t always know how to connect with you casually, they might hesitate or feel unsure of how to break through your guard. But they recognize your discipline, ambition, and how much effort you put into what matters to you. You’re the kind of person others count on.

Some people might assume you come from wealth or privilege, or feel envious of your financial status or stability, not realizing how hard you’ve worked for it. Your aura can feel “serious,” and your presence might shift the mood in a room, not in a bad way, but in a way that makes people straighten up a bit. Underneath that tough exterior, though, you’re softer than most people realize. You feel deeply, but you protect your inner world carefully. People may never know how loyal or thoughtful you truly are unless they earn a place close to you.

Thank you for reading! If this resonates with you, i can do a paid tarot reading for you with affordable prices! ^^

[jewishbarbies]

She has also since August be seen wearing in pretty much all of her outings some kind of protection jewelry things. This big ass crystal around her neck, evil eye necklace and rings...it's all to keep negative energies away and if you think she looks exhausted now...last month she was looking worse. Even her fandom noticed, but now they say she has never been happier etc etc

what do you know, cultural appropriation does nothing good for you.

[maenefa]

Why does Eowyn want to die?

Because Aragorn won’t love her? Because she feels trapped in her feminine gender role?

These are the explanations we get in the text. However, none of the characters really acknowledge Eowyn’s darkest fear: being taken alive by the enemy.

There are some bad takes on Eowyn that boil down to patronizing her and downplaying the seriousness of her problems. People say that she had a naive desire for glory and Faramir teaches her that war isn’t actually fun. Then there’s the whole “Eowyn was a deserter who selfishly ran away from her duty” argument.

You can only say these things if you ignore how dire the situation was, how close Sauron was to winning, and how gruesome Eowyn’s fate would have been if he won. She knew that death or capture likely awaited her, and she knew that dying in battle was the least bad option. (She also knew her own worth and believed that she was too useful a warrior to be left behind with the civilians. And she was right.)

Eowyn’s actions are ruthlessly practical! She wants to die fighting because that’s better than waiting around for The Horrors. Let’s be real, Eowyn is too sensible to be suicidal over an unrequited crush.

Here are some of her most revealing quotes:

“All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more.”

“And those who have not swords can still die upon them.”

“Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.”

“But I do not desire healing…. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace.”

In the end, Eowyn only stops wanting to die after Sauron is defeated. Just before the Ring is destroyed, she tells Faramir:

“I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.”

Eowyn can’t turn to light and life until the war is over. Hope is too painful; death at least offers “honor and peace.” This passage is so important because it EXPLICITLY links Eowyn’s despair to the outcome of the war and makes it clear that she is not simply having a meltdown because Aragorn rejected her.

There are two important moments where Eowyn is threatened with violence. The very first time we meet her, we are told by Gandalf that Wormtongue planned to turn her into a sex slave after Saruman conquered Rohan. Even though this threat is dismissed quickly, it’s a disturbing reminder of what could happen to Eowyn if Sauron wins.

Then we have the most triumphant moment of Eowyn’s story: her battle with the Witch King. Once again, Eowyn is not threatened with death, but with captivity and torment:

“Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

Eowyn laughs at him and makes sure to announce that she is a woman before killing him. Her victory is all the more satisfying because the Witch King has just threatened her with captivity, loss of agency, the violation of her body and mind—all threats that Eowyn has faced before. But the Witch King’s words continue to haunt Eowyn and us. He threatens to withhold death; and death is therefore framed as an escape, a gift. Eowyn is taken to the Houses of Healing, but she is obsessed with returning to battle and fighting until she dies.

When Eowyn says that she fears “a cage,” this is a brilliantly simple metaphor for the entire spectrum of oppression she has faced: from the well-meaning restrictions of her culture to the horrifying enslavement threatened by Wormtongue.

Once the war is over, Eowyn is able to laugh at her fears. She teases Faramir: “And would you have your proud folk say of you: there goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North!” Her fear of being caged has been turned into a bit of flirtatious banter. She feels completely safe with Faramir, and the idea that he “tamed” her is nothing but a joke between them.

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Settling in- Yandere warlord x fem reader

Contains- possessive behaviour, cultural assimilation, reader is a mess of anxiety

It feels strange on your tongue to call him “husband” but slowly you've become used to it. Used to him. He's taken the time to try to teach you his language and you're starting to grasp a hold of the unfamiliar vowels, your ears stretching around the sounds. But between the two of you he will speak your tongue, a reprieve in the dead of night when you're too tired to translate your thoughts. Struggling when the words don't come quick enough, or he hasn't yet told you them.

You don't know how to tell him your bleeding has stopped, that it's been near six weeks since the last time you bled. That your breasts feel tender and you cannot stomach to eat in the morning. You suspect your ladies must know, they tend to your bedsheets and underthings, dress you in the morning. Even his mother looks at you with a knowing in her eyes, urging you to eat more and wrap up warmly in the soft chill of these late summer nights. No one has said anything yet, there's this stillness in the air where everything unsaid hovers above you. To acknowledge it would make it true, concrete that in your womb you carry the future of his people. And what of your people? Would your child be gentle and strong like your father? Quick tempered and vibrant like your mother? Smart and independent like your brother? Or what of you? Would your child be meek when it matters most? Allow others to make their choices? Would your husband be disappointed to have a child look like you instead of him? He calls you beautiful, yes, but you know that his people may be hard pressed to accept an heir who takes too much after their foreign mother.

Too many worries are known to you. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close to rest your head on his chest.

“You've not slept yet,” he mumbles half asleep into your hair. “Whatever could be keeping you awake little wife?” You hesitate. Knowing you should tell him but unable to say the words. His eyes flicker and he looks down at you, brows furrowed and concerned as he asks again. “Wife?”

You only grab his hand from your back and move it carefully to your belly. Waiting for the realisation to settle in. The silence stretches around you, stuffing your mouth with wool as you wait for him to acknowledge this. He looks down at you, eyes breaking into pure affection.

“Oh you sweet thing,” he pulls you up until your face hovers above his. “My sweet thing.” By the gods he looks terrified, hands trembling at the thought he could be a father. “How long have you known?” He whispers.

“I only became sure of this week. I wanted to be certain before I said anything, I think I may be around six weeks.” You mumble softly, trying to avoid looking down at his eyes. He leans up to catch your lips in a kiss. He already treated you like you were glass but now you're practically a cobweb, so delicate a harsh wind would tear you into pieces. He rocks you against him, as if he cannot believe this.

The following weeks it is as though everyone knows the news. Your ladies and guards have almost doubled, with your husband insuring that for as long as he is with his clan, he will not let you leave his sight. There is too much work to be done, with all the preparations to be moved from the summer camp grounds to the winter ones. And it seems like you only just get in the way when you wish to help, so you are left to sit by his side in the war tent. Half understanding the words spoken, sometimes your Lord turns his head to you, a quick translation for your sake. Your only purpose here is just to be where he sees you, draped in soft furs and silk, a circlet decorating your head, your stomach softly swollen. The stability and wealth of his clan is shown in you, a foreign farm girl taken to be his prized possession.

You perk up quietly when you see a delegation from your own nation enter the tent. You've never spoken during these meetings before, never really had anything to say, it is not as though you're not meant to have input. His mother leads the council in his absence and he often goes to her first for any counsel. But you hesitate to speak, make your voice known, covered in all your finery you look nothing like yourself. The two men are awkward, tongues fumbling as they talk about trading routes and minimising raids on border villages through a new alliance.

You tilt your head slightly to talk to your husband. “May I be able to speak with them afterwards?” You hold a small hope, those men most likely as delegates must work somewhere within the low council. You think of your elder brother, long gone from your village to make a name for himself as a councilman from your border province. Perhaps there's a way to bring word to him, that you still live as a consort to the man who led to the destruction of your home. That you've lost parts of yourself to survive without guilt, that the privilege you live in is paid with blood. That he will be an uncle to a child who may lead war to his doorstep.

The warlord looks at you quizzically, you falter for a moment but rather than respond to your request he beckons for the men to come forward. Slipping into your language easily as he orders them “My esteemed wife came to me from beyond the steppe, the place you refer to as the borderlands, she wishes to grace her former countrymen with her words,”. You never heard his voice sound so threatening before as he glared at them “Kneel in her presence.” as the two men comply kneeling on the carpeted floor he puts his hand upon your knee. Another marker of you as being his rather than your first home.

All eyes turn to you. Tentatively you hold your head up in an effort to mimic your mother in law when she sits council, but it feels more to you like a child being indulged and allowed to sit with the adults.

“Are the two of you members of the low council?” your voice still feels small. How long has it been since you've spoken in your language to anyone other than your husband? They nod, not looking at you. You press on “Do you know the councilman for the Eastern border province? Would it be possible to send a message to him?”

The two delegates look at each other and nod again.

“What is it that you wish for him to know, My lady?” One of them speaks up. You can feel your husband's hand tighten on your knee, a firm squeeze unintentionally bruising as he holds himself back. There is so much you want to say, but you're no fool to ignore the set in his jaw and darkness in his eyes.

“Only that he should know his sister is well and safe.” You leave it at that. There is a small veil of clarity over your husband's eyes as he pieces the meaning together. His hand loosening its grip but never leaving your knee fully.

Late that night as you're being prepared for bed he enters the yurt. Your ladies leave you alone and for a moment there is a silent stillness, the both of you waiting for someone to start. He moves first, taking you by your face and lifting it up to ensure your gaze never leaves his eyes.

“You are mine, you need to remember that whenever you talk to others. I heard your request today and thought to indulge you, but you spoke to those men as though they were your countrymen.” He isn't angry with you. More so this is a quiet admonishment, disappointed with himself for allowing you the freedom to speak.

“But they are my countrymen?” your voice is hesitant. You've never spoken up for what's gone unsaid, the parts of yourself you've had to bury so they wouldn't hold down your heart. But now with the knowledge of some half formed life floating in your womb you can't help but cut open the wounds that never healed. “I am yours because you took me. I was someone before you, a daughter and a sister. You've taken that away from me and want to act as though I was always yours. That I can't ever be anything but yours.”

His eyes flare, “Because that no longer matters. You are mine, it does not matter what the circumstances were before I took you home. When the poems are sung of you they will begin when I brought you home, you were always mine, the gods granted you to me. Why do you refuse it? Those men only respect you because they fear me, because you are now mine you belong to my people. without my love you would be here, why do you not understand?” he pulls away frustrated

You cannot help your anger as it flourishes.

“Why do you not understand,” you begin quietly “that every time I look at one of the slaves kept around camp I know how easily I could be in their place? How sick I feel with myself to know I find comfort with the man responsible for my parents deaths, but is it too much for me to ask that I let my brother know I live?” you grab onto his chest, pulling him closer, beating your fists against him in anger “do you even know how much I fear this child would be too much like me, a coward who never speaks up for fear of the world?” he grabs your hands in his until you're weary and shaking, pulling you against his chest.

“Why would any of that matter? I love you and that's enough, you need not concern yourself with anything other than what is here, you show weakness like this” he rocks you gently trying to calm you down. “If you're weak before others they will think me weak. They will target you and take you from me. I'd kill any man who thinks to rescue you from me. Matters not if he's your countryman, they see me as a savage who stole you. And perhaps I am ” he picks you up and sets you down on the bed. Looming down over you. “Your brother of course now is obligated to rescue you but if he tried to I'd kill him, just as I'd kill any man who would think to humiliate me by kidnapping my bride for himself. “ He places a warm hand across your rounded stomach. “You can be weak if you wish, but never amongst others, only I want to see you vulnerable.” His dark eyes flicker towards your tear filled ones.

“You are my heart. If anyone else is to see you as I do, I'd gouge his eyes than have anyone love you as I.”

[mochinomnoms]

Imagine asking the jade and/or floyd to go swimming. Or while they are swimming you just join them. Now the eel twins keep imagining a future with you cause apparently moray eels do synchronized swimming with their mates. Just to add to the chaos you will probably be non the wiser to the deeper meaning of their careless actions.

I think it's especially funny if one twin is doing the "dance" with you while the other is on the other side of the water, watching with a knowing look.

The real question is how do they proceed to bully their brother over it?

Floyd

The obvious option for Floyd is to have him be very blunt and loud in his teasing, but I offer a different idea. You have no clue what the significance of the dance is, for all you know it's just Jade playing around! And Floyd just wants to play!

"You don't mind if I dance with them too, right Jaaaade?"

Floyd doesn't even wait for him to answer as he swipes your hand and spins you around him in the water. It's quite fun, but if you pay attention, Floyd is still keeping a rather wide berth of room between you two. Compared to Jade, who was twirling with you held close to him, it's practically conservative! Fortunately for him, he's good at hiding his frustration, so you can't really tell he's bothered until Floyd gets just a bit too close. This makes Jade quickly and smoothly snatches you back into his arms and far away from his annoying brother. >:(

Jade

Jade is just a bit meaner than his brother, as he's more than happy to make little comments about Floyd as he dances with you. He just lives to prod at Floyd just to see how long it takes for him to either throw hands or decide he's now bored because Jade wouldn't stop bothering him.

"Oya, getting rather touchy aren't we Floyd? Should I be informing mother about a new addition to the family?"

Floyd nonstop smacks with the tip of his tail do nothing to deter him as Jade follows you two, still making pointed remarks. First, he mentions if his brother would prefer privacy. Then he asks you if you ever had a chance to learn more about mer culture. You're confused as to why Jade is mentioning courting practices, but have no chance to ask him what he's talking about before Floyd is throwing himself at Jade and beating his ass.

[lazycats-stuff]

Can we get batfam x male brother Reader who is a professional pianist and travels the world performing solo or with an orchestra (your choice) and nobody in the family notices that he is gone except Titus and Alfred (the cat) who sit by the grand piano in the manor and whine because there is no music. Your choice on how the story ends.

Big fan of your writing.

Sure, lets do it. Fair warning, I'm not a pianist or a musician, so just a heads up. And yes, this is short, but, exams, exams and praying to pass the year.

Summary: (Y/N) is a world know pianist. The only problem is that his family doesn't seem to notice him leaving for performances.

Warnings: everyone forgot about (Y/N), besides the furry residents, (Y/N) is a musician.

(Y/N)'s life was always connected to music. Ever since he was a little boy, he would be sitting at the piano, pressing at the keys, enjoying the sound of the notes and melodies he made and he enjoyed the rhythm very much. He had a highly trained ear for anything related to music and Bruce noticed that early on.

No one could deny that (Y/N) had a special connection to music and so Bruce hired a tutor for (Y/N), a renowned teacher who was well known for her tough love, but still loving methods. (Y/N) was genuinely enjoying the lessons and the nurturing of his talent clearly did him well.

He would play whenever he had the time, whenever he could sneak off, (Y/N) would be playing. Bruce would have to force him to study for school, which wasn't a problem for (Y/N) since he was studious enough, but he just wanted to play. Of course, Bruce would make sure that (Y/N) had his breaks, because it's good for your mental health to have breaks.

And to prevent burnout. Just because you love something, doesn't mean you don't need breaks, that was something that Bruce would say rather often.

But as the time went on and the night job as Batman started taking over and over, Bruce was slowly, but surely slowly losing interest in (Y/N)'s passion. He didn't want to lose it, but between his night job, Justice League, his other sons on patrol and then in the Justice Leagues and soon, (Y/N) was forgotten.

The only normal son was forgotten.

That hurt (Y/N) at first, but it is all good to (Y/N). He's a solo performer know the world over, packing concert halls. It took a while to get there, but with finishing a prestigious music academy, pure passion and competitiveness that he inherited from the Wayne family, he made it in the world of classical music.

He would often practice on the grand piano in the Manor, Alfred the cat curling on his lap, not minding the moving of (Y/N)'s legs as he pressed the pedals of the piano to tune the sound. It was oddly comforting to Alfred. And Titus, the big bastard would curl up next to the chair since he couldn't curl up at his feet.

Right now, (Y/N) was travelling all over Europe, performing all over sold out concert halls, to people who shared the same passion for classical music and for piano performances. And Europe was really amazing. Food, history, culture...

It's been a few weeks now and the Manor has been... Quiet. No piano... Nothing. Bruce and the others were just going on with their lives, not really bothered by the silence of the manor. But to the two furry residents, the silence was bothering them. A lot. Alfred the cat would climb around the closed piano, whining at the no sounds coming from it, also missing the owner of the piano as well. He would rub all over the piano, lounge on the chair of the piano, meowing and whining for the music.

Titus, the gentle giant of the two, also lounged around the piano, sniffing, nudging it with his snout, trying to get it playing, whining at it just like Alfred when it didn't start making noise. Moving to the chair, putting his head on it, just like he did when (Y/N) was back home.

But the two furry residents, the silence was torture. And they were patiently waiting for their favorite human residents to come back home. But until then... They would have to suffice with Damian, Dick, Jason and Tim, plus Bruce and actual Alfred who are taking care of them now.

But once (Y/N) is back, they are going to be the first ones to greet him.

[sheepispink]

Sweet Like Sugar ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི COD MASTERLIST Sweet as Sugar Masterlist

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི pairings: simon riley x (afab) reader

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Trying to advertise your bakery is particularly difficult, especially when no one seems to want to try anything new lately, still stuck in their old ways. Thankfully, a particular masked man is also particularly fond of the tea you make along side your signature pastries.

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི WC: 2.5k

NEXT

You’ve grown up in Wales nearly your entire life, living not too far from a fresh farm and yet so close to a little town you call home. The weather is typical for Britain, always a little dreary though sometimes the sun would shine so bright the grass on these hills looked like those in the movies. You’d run up those hills as a child, laughing as the sheep would make noises after your every whim.

Today was particularly dreary though; the sun struggled to peek through even with the large gaps between each cloud, only leaving behind a desolate grey on the town. It was your turn to take over the shop for the day, seeing as your parents were out of town on business details. A few named your shop to be ‘the littlest around’, since it wasn't exactly the biggest area nor did many know of it. After all, it had only opened recently after the last owner left their business to rot out. It took practically months to renovate the dusty walls of this shop even more so that your family were on a tight budget. However your parents believed in it and so did you.. or you thought you did anyway. Maybe you had watched too many movies as a kid because this business was definitely not booming, infact you had spent the majority of the past week trying to advertise the best you possibly could.

Either way, it was bound to be quiet today so you decide you may as well use it as a testing day. The menu was finalised already however you were eager about one thing to add, a selection of freshly brewed teas. It wasn't the most viable since it required a lot of customers at the same time in order to taste the actual freshness— otherwise it’d just go cold and icky. Placing the portable burner down— something you picked up since most days used to be spent in a caravan— you place a pot atop and light the flame. You had not travelled very far, but due to your grandparent who was particularly interested in plenty of cultures, you picked up a few handy recipes for delicious teas.

Unfortunately, you didnt have much on you today after using your last stock on the small opening party. So, you’d have to make do with what you had. You hum as you boil the water in the pan, before slowly adding the milk and some spices— cardamon and cinammon to be exact. It’d make a rich flavour which was perfect with the right amount of sugar, and so, you let it brew as you hummed, debating whether you were allowed to play your favourite tunes here or not.

Seeing as no one had showed up in a while, you plug your phone into the speaker system, letting a soft song play throughout the little patisserie as you grin and nod your head along. What you hadnt expected was the bell above the door to jingle, heavy boots dragging against the wooden floor as they grow louder. You snap your head up, looking a little startled before you quickly stand infront of the counter again, putting on your best sheepish smile.

“Welcome! What can i get for you today?”

The strange man wears a balaclava over his face, his eyes showing and a few tufts of blonde peeking out the back as he bends a little to look over all of the pastries available. Eventually he stops, pointing at one the sausage rolls, before his gruff voice finally breaks his silence. “Two o’ these.”

You nod quickly, grabbing a paper bag before carefully placing the two pastries inside and sealing the bag.

“Actually, since it’s a weekday, all the pastries come with a dessert or drink. Is there any one you would like?”

You tilt your head, as you place the bag on the counter, already tapping in the current bill. He pauses and glances over at the sweeter desserts, but even you could tell just from his appearance that he doesnt seem to be too fond of them. Instead, his height allows him to easily peek over the counter and he can instantly smell the pot of rich cardamom tea brewing. “Is that for sale?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you can only tell from how the mask lifts a little. You pause, wondering if you really should be giving them out to customers just yet.

“It’s a taster really.. would you like to try?” He lets out a grunt in agreement and you walk back over, ladeling a creamy cup of the tea for him before stepping over to him once more. He taps his card down for the items he bought, taking the steaming cup in his hand but he doesnt intend to drink it and reveal his face—clear from the way he glances around the shop. “Is it always this quiet or are you about to close?” He raises a brow, wondering if he had just accidentally forced you to stay open longer than you should. Your hands wave in front of you frantically as you shake your head. “No! No— um, it’s been a little hard to promote business recently. We only opened last month..” Today you decide not to mention that last weeks rain had nearly drowned the entire shop floor, instead just giving him another sheepish look. “I’m trying to look for any opportunities we can to show off our bakes. I’ve been looking at fairs recently.” You hum and he nods, before lifting his mask without a second thought and sipping down the hot tea you made him. “You should promote this aswell, i can see this tasting good with a dessert.” He offers his advice and you nod readily, smiling at him since he just indirectly said that the tea was good. “Well, i’ll make sure to have lots more flavours too!

A month later and unsurprisingly your family’s little shop isnt any more popular than the last time you took charge of it. That strange man appeared a few times afterwards but you hadnt seen him, busy with your own part time job to try and bring some extra income in. Today you were finally back though, the peak of winter hitting like a shock but it didnt stop the excitement brimming through the town.

At the start of December each year, the town would host a market in the main plaza, which was particularly big for the town’s size. There was everything from crafts and fresh fruit, flowers and trinkets to the toastiest hot chocolate and clothing. This year you were determined to make your mark, selling sweet pastries and the spiced tea at the same time. He did say it’d draw in at least a bit of attention, right? Well, you sure hoped so because you were using a portion of your personal savings to try again with the tea. You’d never know if you didn't try and, in the worst case scenario, you could give it for free to the other vendors as a sign of good sportsmanship— maybe you could even trade. You grin eagerly as you set up the stand, glass covers above all your decorated pastries, sweet and savoury waiting to be bitten into. Perhaps you went a little overboard with the baking but this was a big event—even neighbouring towns travelled here!

The fair kickstarts around five thirty, the time when most get off work and so many are already flocking to find something for their hungry stomach. You practically bubble with excitement when you get your first three orders, only to turn and see the hot burrito stall’s queue which looks like it’d shadow your stall next. With a small frown, your demeanour drops as the orders only get rarer, a few commenting on not being sure to try something so exotic. About tea. Literal chai. Customer service was not for the weak clearly, since you had to restrain yourself from lunging over the table right then and there, giving the lady a forced smile before she walked off. You let your head rest in your hands, groaning a little too loudly, but it wasnt like anyone was even close enough to your stall to hear anyway. The only thought that consumed you was frustration; you knew damn well that all the bakes here were delicious, that the recipes were to die for and the tea was an absolute soother for any cold or strain. Though, no matter how hard you tried no one seemed to want to hear you out.

“Are you taking a break?”

A voice rings out, gruff, a little muffled and stern but most of all— familiar. Your eyes snap up, meeting the gaze of that stranger from before, well now he looked entirely different. “You… from before.. you’re a soldier?!” You have to forcefully lower your voice before you cause his ears to bleed through his balaclava. He was decked out in full tactical gear, apart from the weapons of course and the helmet held in the crook of his elbow. Though not just him, an entire team of soldiers aswell who surrounded your stall, practically brimming with excitement at the tasty baked goods they’d finally try.

“Finished a day long training in the cold. Thought i’d bring ‘em to your stall for a break. You dont look good yourself though” He bluntly states the last part out, already suspecting that you’d sigh next. “Orders are still slow...” You murmur, and he nods, as if he’d expected that. Before either of you can speak, one of his soldiers perks up, “Miss, how much would it be for two of these pie slices and one of your sausage rolls?”

Your lips part in surprise and you hurry to the till, typing in the amounts before announcing the price to him. The reasonable cost of your goods and the great quality is enough to catch the attention of his teammates, and soon enough you have them lined up waiting to buy their share too.

You cough to get his attention when the queue finally draws to a blank and he slowly approaches as you gesture to the pots of tea steaming beside you. The soldiers had taken the majority of your stock, even asking for refills but one large cup was saved for him. “On the house, for a regular.” You say cheekily and he nods, the sides of his mask creasing up into what you think could possibly be a smile. “So, how did you even convince your boss to let you bring your whole team here anyway? I always thought those ‘sergeant’ people were like.. really strict.” He chuckles at you, deep and gruff and for a second you’re confused, tilting your head at him. “Hey— what’s so funny? I’m being serious!” He finally stops, his eyes crinkled slightly as he looks back at you. “I’m their Lieutenant.” ” He says still with that monotone voice and your jaw practically drops, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as you groan loudly. “I’m very sorry..”

Now sitting upon the benches, they chatter amongst themselves whilst others eye the other trinkets available, looking for something for the loved ones back home. The man with the skull mask still stands nearby though watching you fill up a cup full of the tea before handing it to a customer.

“Do you take large orders too?” He finally pipes up, glancing over at you with that filled cup still in his hand. “Well.. we don't have any official set up..” Being his acquaintance was a severe exaggeration, and yet you couldn't stand to disappoint him right now. Especially seeing as much as he’s done so far,perhaps not intentionally, but what intrigues you even more is that his soldiers seemed to be over the moon about your pastries. You hadn't really thought about the fact soldiers are probably dying for the taste of a good home cooked pastry, especially in the winter months, and now it seems like this could really boost your business.

“But..I could just give you my number?” Putting that forward seems a bit odd, but in truth you were being completely innocent about it even if he seems to believe otherwise, smirking beneath the mask before he nods. He takes his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and hands it over to you before gesturing to you to do the same. When you receive your phone back, you see the new contact, ‘Lieutenant Ghost (sausage roll)’ and snicker a little; you’re pretty sure you can remember him without the assistance but it’s amusing anyway. “I’ll text you later regarding any big orders we want to make.”

He gives you another nod and you quickly agree with his words, grateful for the opportunity he’s provided you with.

“Thanks for bringing all your soldiers here.. i dont think we would’ve garnered this much attention otherwise.” People had already noticed the brand on the soldiers' cups and bags, making their way to the stall and eyeing some of the goods left from their rampage. He only shrugs, ignoring the fact he had any part in this. “By the way..” You hum, glancing at the untouched tea in his hand curiously. “Why haven't you drank any yet— it’ll grow cold soon.” He leans against your table slightly before he just nods firmly again, looking back at the crowds. “Dont like to show my face.” That makes you blink, confused since he had easily shown you in the shop a month ago when he tried it for the first time. “But—“

Before you can answer, his phone buzzes and he glances down before beckoning his group over. “Oi, all of you. We’re leavin’ in ten— do not make us late.” Suddenly you dont feel at all bad for calling him strict earlier, even snickering a little at how stern his voice had suddenly gotten even if he’s usually monotone to you too. The soldiers eyes grow wide and they quickly jump to buy the rest of their things making you snicker.

“Guess that’s the last I'll see of you, ‘Lieutenant’. See you soon.” You grin, waving as he throws the now empty cup in the trash— when did he drink that? He lifts a hand to give a short wave at you too before stepping away to join the rest of his men. “Dont worry, you will.”

That night you’re left dumbfounded as you stare at your phone, the text lighting your eyes up in the darkness of your room. ‘Tomorrow night is the second day of the fair, right?’ The first part reads, and you mentally nod, remembering how your parents said you’d take the first day and they’d handle the second. When you responded with a yes, but also clarifying your stall is also available, he wrote back one more text.

‘Good. I’ll be taking you around with me this time.”

------

NEXT

Sweet as Sugar Masterlist

buy me a kofi :)

[logansdoll]

Heyyy. Ok really cheesy but I’d like to request a Logan x reader friends to lovers where it’s like an accidental confession. Maybe someone makes fun of the reader and Logan without thinking about it just starts yelling and defending why the reader is great and everything he loves about her? Ik it’s a little OOC but maybe he gets so mad (as Wolverine does) that he gets all mushy without realizing lol. Thanks ❤️❤️

lotus

while on library duty, Logan overhears two girls talking shit about you... and corrects it quickly.

CW: sorry i went in a little different direction, suggestive, profanity, takes place during the timeline of the og X-Men, these girls are bitches, etc.

"I just don't get what's the big deal about her," Maya scoffed, resting her cheek in her palm as she thoughtlessly flipped through her biology textbook.

Talia nodded, glancing up from her notes with an excitement that screamed nothing to do.

"No, seriously," she agreed. "Like we get it... you can grow shit. Big deal."

That piqued Logan's interest.

With Jean and Scott off on a date, the professor away, and you and Ororo teaching a joint class, he was slapped with library duty—watching the kids during their scheduled study period.

Now, originally, he planned on simply plopping himself down in a corner and puffing his cigar, hoping to fall asleep and just ride out his sentence.

And he was halfway there, too.

But just as he was about to catch some Zs, his hearing picked up on a conversation between two older girls who seemed to be trash talking his girlfriend.

"Word," Maya turned the next page, a grimace settling on her face when she noticed the image of a flower.

One you were very vocal about liking.

"She won't shut up about these stupid lotus flowers either... Hey! Did you guys know that the lotus is considered sacred in many Eastern cultures? And it often symbolizes purity, beauty, and rebirth!"

Talia let out an obnoxious snicker, the impression not nearly as funny as what she was making it to be.

But maybe she just hated you that much...

"You sound just like her," she commended, very much amused. "Only she's always smiling. Like I've never seen her frown before... it's almost creepy."

"Seriously creepy. But Peter can't get enough of it... you know he has a crush on her, right?"

"Seriously?!"

Logan let out a quiet chuckle, tickled by the news.

He'd caught the boy staring at you during a few Danger Room sessions, but didn't think much of it, assuming he'd just caught him while he happened to be looking in your direction.

Oh, how wrong he was...

He couldn't wait to tell you later tonight.

"Mhmm. Half the boys at school nearly fall over themselves to make sure they're not late to her class... It's almost funny."

"Funny, my ass. Why'd it have to be Peter?" Talia huffed, tossing her pencil at the textbook in frustration. "She's not even that pretty. I've had dogs that look better than her."

Maya attempted to muffle a snicker, but Logan heard it loud and clear, his brows furrowing at the horrible comment.

"I'm serious. She puts up this whole nice and innocent act, but I bet she's a raging bitch behind closed doors."

That was it.

All the stuff before was just normal, teenage jealousy; something he'd—albeit reluctantly—let slide.

But calling you out of your name?

Insulting your character?

Comparing you to a dog?

A line had to be drawn.

"Tali, you can't say that," Maya chuckled, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.

"Like I care," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'd tell it to her face if I ever got the chance. Just walk right up to her and say—"

"Say what?"

The girls nearly jumped out their skin, whipping around, only to be met by Logan's arched brow, the man leaning up against a bookshelf as he puffed on his cigar.

They were at a loss for words, unable to say anything under his imposing presence.

"Don't get shy now," he goaded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go on. Tell me what you're gonna say to Dr. (l/n)."

The two were practically frozen, frantically glancing at each other for assistance, Logan's eyes flicking between the two expectantly.

"Nothing?" he hummed. "That's funny... 'cause you both seemed to have plenty of shit to say earlier."

Both their faces fell almost instantly, the color practically draining from Talia.

"You heard that?" Maya squeaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Every word," Logan nodded. "And what I managed to gather from it was that you both just can't stand her because she's kind, passionate, pretty, and beloved."

He listed each trait off on his fingers, glancing at the two for confirmation.

"How's that? Am I in the ballpark?"

They remained silent, hanging their heads in embarrassment as Logan's confrontation had garnered the attention of the whole library.

"Well, then, how's this..." he pulled the cigar out his mouth. "I'll let you both off this time with a warning... but if I catch either of you trash talkin' anybody again, teacher or student, you're grounded."

"'Til when?" Talia asked, nervously.

"'Til I tell you you're not."

The end of day bell punctuated his statement, a flourish of shutting books and closing pencil cases muffling the girls' sighs of relief.

"Now get outta here."

He had never seen two students pack up so fast.

They were gone in T-minus ten, and once the library was cleared out, Logan allowed himself to sit down, letting out his own sigh.

He could've tore into them infinitely worse—and he honestly wanted to for that dog comment—but he figured that was the right, and legal, amount for a teacher.

But even still...

'I dunno how a girl who can only float two inches off the ground is talkin' about (n/n) havin' a shitty power...'

[everythingchnges]

MYTHS VS HELLENIC POLYTHEISM : What’s the difference? What to actually look out for?

I’m going to start this blog off very blunt at first and then I’m going to dive deeper in, first off:

Mythology ≠ Religion.

That’s as blunt as I can actually get. Now, to dive in deeper,

“How are they different?”

Well, we first need to take a look at the actual definition of mythology.

See how it says “exaggerated”? Yeah, exactly. Myths are a collection of stories that are often made over the top and fictitious to often serve as a “moral of the story” and a lesson to people reading them, to show aspects of humans and how their live and act and what their ethics are. How does that work? Well, usually when you read myths (I’m going to put the story of Icarus here because it’s the most famous one), they tend to deliver a certain message to the reader, for example with the Greek myth Icarus who got too close to the sun despite the warnings given to him, depict a lesson on the consequences of not listening to someone/disobeying. Usually, it just serves and life lessons and are NOT supposed to be taken so literally. Like no, you aren’t gonna make wings and fly up to the sky and fall in a LITERAL sense…

You can take Alaska Native story telling as a reference who use these stories to teach the community, or serve as lessons for their heritage. (Or in my culture what we have is called “Zārb Ol-Māssāl” which are a series of poems or stories that tend to deliver a message to the reader on their actions.)

The whole point of myths is to tell a story in hopes that the reader or people passing down these stories will understand them on a deeper level instead of looking at it in a literal and surface sense. It allows people to connect with these stories on different aspects like love, loss, grief, etc… and to use them to create a path to share these stories with future generations. Believe it or not, myths actually serve as a powerful tool to keeping a culture alive. Why do you think Greek myths and Nordic myths are so popular?

Now, here comes the question on,

“Well why is it so bad to take these myths literally when it comes to religion? Aren’t they stories from these religions?”

Myths - although do share a purpose to aspire and teach - become way too mixed with the concept of religion at times and messes up the whole narrative. And in Hellenic Polytheism, it’s very VERY common for non-HelPols to mutter a “But Zeus was a 🍇ist!” Here or a “Hades kidnapped Persephone!” There. And this can be VERY damaging to the religion as a whole.

Now say it with me:

The gods are NOT their Myths.

Read that again. It’s exactly what’s written there.

During these myths, the gods are depicted more as characters instead of spiritual and natural beings. Think of the gods not as people, but as energy. A force of nature like spirits. Shoving these energy forces into a corner and labelling them as this and that is extremely disrespectful because you’re just throwing their spiritual depth away like it’s a cartoon show. The gods aren’t your characters you can headcanon. They’re actually forces of nature.

Most literal readings use the myths as a way to corner people who genuinely practice this stuff and force them to explain the “cheating” and “affairs” that they’ve seen from these stories, which creates a stigma around these people to explain themselves and it makes them view this practice as absurd and disgusting. What’s even worse is that the myths usually make people completely block the theological interpretation and place the gods as being only this and that. Hellenic Polytheism is a RECONSTRUCTED religion. Say it with me now:

RE. CON. STRUC. TED.

Which means it has evolved through studies and modern day practice. Basically let’s say back then the Greeks had their temples to worship the gods but now, modern day HelPols don’t actually HAVE those huge temples to go to since most are destroyed, so we make our own small, roomy altars for the gods since we have no other choice. Get my point?

And not to mention, most people who name Hellenic Polytheism as an absurd religion full of people who defend 🍇, are often conditioned by Abrahamic religions and use THEIR teachings into Polytheistic religions like Hellenic Polytheism. In Abrahamic religions, most stories are actually taken literally and seriously so when you see myths from another religion trying to tell you about the consequences your actions have on yourself and others and it’s not ACTUALLY what the text LITERALLY says then they lose their shit. These misinterpretations can often lead to memes and pop culture references that are harmful stereotypes for a VERY REAL religion

(Cough cough looks at Lore Olympus COUGHHHHHHHH)

So yeah, generally not so good.

But then you must be asking:

“If they’re all myths, then how are the gods related? How is Apollo the son of Zeus if it’s just a myth?”

Great question! And I’m here to explain the concept of “branches” to you.

Let’s place Zeus and Apollo as a point here. Who is Zeus? Well, Zeus is the “Sky Father” of Olympus. He is often seen as the highest order of the Olympians. What about Apollo? Well, Apollo being his “son” often shares the divine authority with him for example with music and prophecy and the sun. Which can all also be traced back to Zeus like an archetype relationship, like a branch. They share things in common and cosmic functions to be connected to each other on a more spiritual basis rather than “blood”.

You can also see them as metaphors! Like how Zeus is Apollos “father”. But what they really mean by this would be something like:

Zeus is … -> order and kingship. A divine authority.

Apollo is -> prophecy and light. Shares a piece of that divine authority with Zeus.

It’s a symbolism. And not only does Hellenic Polytheism use this but other systems like Egyptian, Norse, Hindu, etc… use these as well to connect divine authority and spiritual power.

Yes the gods are “related” but not in the way us humans actually think of when the word “related” comes to mind. It’s more of a spiritual thing connected by forces of nature.

Have a wonderful rest of your day. 🤞🏻

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Do you know who Yuu is canonically close to? Like who actually considers themselves to be friends or at least close with Yuu and willingly interacts with them. I'm sorry if this sounds rude because I know people have their own yuusonas and headcannons but I'm just curious.

In order to respond to this question, I will primarily be referring to the main story. Voice lines are not going to be considered because a lot of them are primarily aimed at the player and serve as fanservice, which does not accurately reflect the character's relationship with them in the main story canon. Events and vignettes do indicate character relationships, but are not technically "canon" to the main story. However, I will bring up examples from these, as while these may not fit in a coherent main story timeline, the lore presented in them is still very sound. Yuu appears to be canonically close with the first years, although their closest allies among this group are Ace, Deuce, and Grim. The first years are seen partying at the end of Terror is Trending as a group, clean up the ghost wedding decorations together, stake out Mickey Mouse + hang out at Lilia's farewell party in book 7 together, band together to help Ortho determine a club to join in his College Gear vignette, and help Ortho research the concept of "evolution" for Fairy Gala: If. Yuu is obviously very close with Ace and Deuce, seeing as they share the same homeroom, eat lunch together, and have gone through many dangerous situations with one another (several OB battles being the main one). They think of each other when one of them isn't included, either! For example, in White Rabbit Fest, Deuce invited Ace to join them (but Ace couldn't due to basketball practice). So Deuce decides to buy him a souvenir instead! Ace extends an invitation to Deuce to join him for Playful Land. And do I even need to bring up the end of book 4 where those two bozos take a long and convoluted trip from the Queendom of Roses to Sage's Island DURING WINTER BREAK to check up on Yuu after receiving a SOS text from them??? Or their tearful reunion at the end of book 6??

Grim is also a very important friendship for Yuu. They are, of course, the first person Yuu meets upon their arrival in Twisted Wonderland, as well as one of their roommates. He's almost always with them, for better or for worse. Yuu is shown to be hurt when Grim attacks them at the end of book 5 and worries for his wellbeing. In fact, the very first time Yuu blatantly acts against Crowley's orders (to stay put) is to rescue Grim in book 6 after he was captured by Ferrymen.

I'd also like to add that the Ramshackle Ghosts are also pretty close with Yuu! They not only live together, but also cover for Yuu when they're unable to fulfill the chores Crowley asked them to do over winter break, play magift/spelldrive with Yuu, worry when Yuu goes away for extended periods of time, and make a Halloween costume for Yuu.

Some honorable/"up for debate" mentions go out to:

Crowley - Some fan works like to portray Crowley (or other staff) as a father figure to Yuu. However, Crowley does the bare minimum in canon to act like a parent and is often offloading work onto Yuu. He doesn't really show affection or go out of his way to spend time with them unless he wants something from Yuu.

"The nice guys" (Rook, Kalim, Silver, etc.) - They're nice to everyone, but not particularly close with Yuu specifically; it should be noted that Kalim, Lilia, and Silver all have called Yuu their "friend" in dialogue. Trey and Riddle - I think it could be said that Yuu is closer to Heartslabyul than the other dorms (partly because two of their closest friends are from this dorm), but I don't know if they're actually "friends"? Yes, Yuu does walk around with Riddle and Trey in book 5 to check out the culture fair. Yes, Trey did send sweets over with Adeuce at the start of their training camp. But I never actually see Riddle and Trey going out of their way to casually hang out with Yuu or anything like that. They seem very... "business professional" with Yuu to me?? But I can see why others may see Yuu being close with the whole dorm. Malleus - I might catch some heat for saying this, but I don't believe Malleus and Yuu are as close as people think they are or want them to be. Do they talk consistently throughout the main story? Sure, but the exchanges are kind of short and usually don't amount to them sharing a lot. Does Malleus help Yuu out? Absolutely, especially in books 3 and 5. It doesn't mean they're necessarily close; every character gets moments where they pitch in. The nickname thing serves as a necessary filler because Malleus refuses to give his real name; it arguably is not a sign of intimacy (especially given that Grim came up with the name, not Yuu). I can see a point being made in Malleus sending a holiday card for Yuu in book 4 and Yuu returning the gesture with a VDC/SDC pass in book 5 (though this could also be viewed as transactional or tit for tat). Think about the main story timeline to put this all into perspective. It's been roughly 6 months since the start of the school year and Malleus and Yuu have only really had brief direct interactions like MAYBE 4 or 5 times total. Yuu doesn’t go over to speak with Malleus upon their return from S.T.Y.X. HQ in book 6; they’re focused solely on their reunion with Adeuce and Grim. They don't have other means of communication (like each others' phone numbers, which Adeuce do have, as seen in book 4) and they don't ever hang out outside of these mandated interactions. Yuu doesn't learn their name properly until book 5, which is in FEBRUARY. And, unlike Yuu's friendships with Adeuce and Grim, Malleus's friendship relies a lot on self-projection. Whereas it's clear that the friendship between Yuu and the idiot trio is mutual, it feels very one-sided with Malleus. Like, Malleus seems more invested in it than Yuu is. He's the one thinking of them on holiday break; Yuu doesn’t think of him on holiday break. They think of Malleus only in like early book 7 when Ortho asks if they know any fae, and it’s for a personal reason too (helping them find a way home).

Yuu's closeness with Malleus is left vaguely defined so the player can insert whatever their own feelings about him are into the scenario. They speak with him in a casual tone, yet they never go out of their way to actually invite him to functions or ask questions to learn more about him. Yuu doesn’t even seem to be that torn up about going back home and never seeing Malleus again. This is not the case with Adeuce and Grim; Yuu has dialogue options which imply they would miss their company. Yuu feels so… detached from Malleus; he at best feels like an amicable (?) acquaintance, but not a friend.

[purple-plum-petals]

Hello! I saw your homicipher requests were open, and I wanted to request some general mr scarletella fluff if possible! :D

⊱ General Fluffy Headcanons ⊰ || Mr. Scarletella Headcanons

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮ Character(s): Mr. Scarletella (Homicipher/文字化化) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): Canon-typical Mentions of Violence (and horror-elements), Unhealthy Obsession/Possessiveness, Cultural Barriers (Mr. Scarletella Doesn’t Fully Comprehend Certain Emotions/Expresses Them Differently Than a Human Would). Genre: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic or Platonic Relationship (It’s Complicated, honestly). Word Count: ~900 words Request: “Hello! I saw your homicipher requests were open, and I wanted to request some general mr scarletella fluff if possible! :D” Author’s Note: I’ll be honest with y’all, writing straight-up fluff for these characters is really hard to do lmao. I try to stay as canon-compliant as possible (it’s low-key a curse, but it’s such a great way to practice writing 😔), so I hope these are fluffy enough for you given, well… the source material as a whole haha. Mr. Scarletella wasn’t originally one of my favorite characters from the game, but he’s honestly starting to grow on me at a concerning speed – shout-out to all the artists on Twitter who have added to my enjoyment of this man. ✌️

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

🩸: Whenever it rains, Mr. Scarletella is always standing right there next to you, holding his red umbrella over your form so you do not become drenched because of the dreary weather. He takes his job very seriously, too, not minding how cold water causes his clothing to cling to his already deathly cold skin. He does it with an ever-present smile, too, watching you with unblinking eyes while he happily follows you around. Mr. Scarletella doesn’t get cold, he typically doesn’t feel any physical sensation in the first place, so getting a little wet while being able to keep you dry is something he doesn’t mind doing for you. If you invite him to join you under the umbrella, he falters for a bit before eventually standing next to you, shielding both of you from the rain (he loves being able to stand that close to you – he can almost feel the warmth radiating from you, and he finds himself craving it even after the two of you have found somewhere to take shelter). 

🩸: If there’s something you express an interest in, whether or not Mr. Scarletella is around when you make the off-handed comment, you’ll wake up to it lying right in front of your door. It’s honestly a bit creepy sometimes, just waking up to the article of clothing you looked at for longer than three seconds or the book whose title you briefly mentioned sitting at your feet when you open the door. In the past, any gift he left used to just be haphazardly placed in front of the door, and it reminded you of when a cat would catch a mouse and bring it to their owner (you’re not going to talk about the time you woke up to a literal human heart waiting for you, though…). However, Mr. Scarletella noticed that humans who exchanged gifts typically had them wrapped in paper, so he started to mimic their behavior, too, in the hopes you would like them more. Sure, his wrap-jobs were bad, almost hilariously so, but it was the thought that mattered. 

🩸: Whenever he looks at you, his pupils further dilate (even more than they usually are – it’s almost to the point where his entire eye is purely black, the red of his irises lost in the dark void of his gaze). Mr. Scarletella loves being able to just look at you, needing nothing more in life. He’ll watch you with an unblinking stare while you do literally anything. Whether it be cleaning your home or making yourself a meal, he will observe you as if you were the most interesting thing to have ever existed. As stated before, Mr. Scarletella is very good at mimicking human behaviors so, sometimes, he’ll ask if he can join you in whatever task you’re doing. He’ll copy the way you clean the floors or perfectly execute chopping the vegetables for the dish you were making after showing him what to do a single time. He’s very pleasant to be with during moments like these since he’s very good at acting like a human most of the time (other times, though – say if you need something from the top shelf – his body will twist and morph in very unsettling ways... It just emphasizes that, even if he’s good at pretending, he still isn’t human at the end of the day).   

🩸: Being with Mr. Scarletella means that you cannot have an unserious relationship, it’s just not in his vocabulary (because he’s obsessive, especially regarding you). He’s devoted to you entirely – body, mind, and soul – gladly letting you have the red umbrella to do with it whatever you wish. He’ll shiver slightly whenever you hold it in your hands, your touch is so strangely gentle as you softly run your fingers along the handle or press a kiss to the unassuming object. It hurts but in a different way. A part of him wishes you would just throw the umbrella to the ground, dig your heel into it, and have him experience a pain that was easier for him to understand… but you don’t. He loves your sweet touches, even if it’s painful and causes his chest to ache. He finds himself wishing he could touch you in that way, too, his ghost-like caresses causing your skin to tingle with static whenever his feather-light hands graze over your flesh (he loves cuddles and loving touches, even if he can’t experience them with you in a conventional sense). 

🩸: If you ever find yourself being bothered by someone who won’t leave you alone or someone who won’t take no for an answer, well… they may or may not end up missing. If you don’t want Mr. Scarletella to take care of anyone who is bothering you for you, you’ll definitely have to explain that it’s not appropriate because of the differences in your cultures – death and murder are common in the other world, after all (I’d also explain to him that he cannot harm or threaten people you care about, either, since he honestly wants you all to himself). This does mean, though, that you know that you’re safe no matter where you are. Mr. Scarletella is always watching you so, if you find yourself in a situation where your safety is at risk, you honestly have nothing to fear. He’ll keep you safe – you’re his love, his world, his reason for living, and he won’t let someone else take that from him.

[thedansemacabres]

On Helpol tumblr there has been some discourse on the worship of Ares and it is completely justified for a personal practice why someone would not honour him. However, though, I would enjoy to bring up points from history on a reconstruction angle on why to worship Ares. I appreciate the critical examination into who and what we worship—we should be more critical of stately portrayals of the divine and understand ancient politics less we reconstruct something wretched. These points are sourced from Cults and sanctuaries of Ares and Enyalios: A survey of the literary, epigraphic, and archaeological evidence by Matthew Paul Gonzales.

It is deeply historically attested, for anyone thinking that it was not. The anti-Ares classical sentiment can be traced back to WWII for reasons that do not need explaining. The emphasis on his pathetic myths also partially stem from this.

Ares was and is deeply concerned with justice and Dike is described as his lead. He is shown as the blood vengeance in particular, which still does have modern importance—many of us endorse the guillotine. This could inspire modern worshippers to take to action for causes to support good, justice, and love in their communities. Love and war, mayhaps?

He is also connected to peace and restraining violence alongside war-like desires. This is depicted in the homeric hymnal.

Ares is also close to defending land, especially that of floral and agricultural bounty: he is often positioned with fertility goddesses, such as Aphrodite, Despoina, and Cybele.

He is a vengeful protector, when people are wronged or land is stolen and waged against. Athens used this for defending their land—chaining Ares to the land meanings bringing in his power to serve you and your land’s interests. I do not endorse the usage of this to support oppressive regimes, but it could be adapted in a more liberation focused fashion.

Through Ares, some facets of prosperity is given, and I do not take it as a coincidence he is paired with Athena, who directs while Ares rushes.

Worship is also used to avoid conditions; Apollon to keep the plague away, Ares to keep war and strife away, such as his homeric hymn entails.

Courage is also stated to be a condition he gifts.

Lastly, I find it of vast importance to establish modern ideas of gods that are honest to the historical record and finds fluidity in them. Gods can change and they can be discussed with. Perhaps this is my Roman pagan influences, but we can influence and argue with the gods on points we believe in—for justice and ultimate good, as Zeus does mandate divine justice. We can show Ares, more than he already knows and has, the importance of supporting the revolutionary, and we can invoke his power in fighting for the sovereignty of nature. I am also personally fond of the feminist interpretations of him, and while not likely accurate to history, we should be adapting and developing with the gods in the modern period. Ares as a symbol of violently defending women against patriarchy is ripe for expression and movement, though not without due issues.

We should be striving towards ultimate good and Ares’ power in the modern era, with a modern lens, can continue to give weight to this pursuit. If he can encourage us and take a stand against the machismo ideas of “spartan” ideals that dudebros often have, we can make beneficial cultural changes. The gods do not just belong to history, they are history, and Historia is here to inspire and defeat us at every turn. 

I will say my dea Bellona is more of the historical revolution divinity that people want. She has a lot more of the epigraphic record to support this, but nonetheless, there are many reasons to honour Ares outside of war. Especially in his connections to nature and fertility, which strikes my heart happily as a sustainable agriculturalist. If it is Ares that can motivate more Hellenic pagans to embrace liberation and revolutionary ideas, that is something to preserve.

And regardless, if I can worship Ker without expecting much benefit, we can easily worship a god that is not literal murder. 

[toxicanonymity]

Don't have to wait.

VAMPIRE JOEL x f!READER | 4k words | playlist

You're feeling down, and when Joel comforts you with an act of service, things get steamy. Big thank you to everyone who loves him and keeps thinking of him. 🖤 you don't need to read/re-read the others to enjoy this one.

WARNINGS: 18+, softdark, captivity, big girthy age gap (joel >400/reader 20s-50s), angst, dark fluff, bath, body worship, sexual tension, nipplegasm, dry humping, oral f receiving, romantic / dirty talk, cum eating. 

After drying your tears, Joel held you in your bed as you dozed off for an afternoon nap. Awake while you dreamt, he kept picturing the defeated look on your face as you cried into the pillow. He was afraid to ask what was wrong—he couldn’t bear to hear it out loud. It was the way your life had changed. The way you didn’t have the same freedoms. It was a strange new world, whether he liked to think of it that way or not. He could only imagine what it felt like to you. It was going to get better, SO much better, better than you could imagine, but change was always difficult. He’d seen enough change in his life to know. 

Joel had to think of something to help. Taking you out and about would be the right thing, since he knew it was what you wanted, but he was so afraid to lose you. He’d get there—he’d take you out, but not quite yet. Meanwhile, there had to be something he could do to help. He gently let your head off his bicep, kissed you on the forehead, slid out of bed, and admired you. You looked like an angel. Not just when you slept—all the time. 

He needed to think, so he went to a thinking space. 

Joel rolled open the dark barnhouse doors to his huge bathroom. There was one window, and it was stained glass. The floor was coated concrete,  like the basement, but with prettier swirls in dark colors that glimmered and went well with the window.  There was a fireplace on the wall that was shared by his bedroom, and a freestanding claw-foot bathtub. Hugging the porcelain tub on one side, there was a little washbin with its own spigot, like a little sidecar to the tub. He used the sidecar to lather up a sponge for his own baths, which normally didn’t involve much water.

He sat down on a throne-looking velvet chair to the side of the fireplace, facing the tub. He put his journal down on a darkened teak table. Physically, he had energy, but mentally, he was spent.  He rested his head against the chair and crossed his arms loosely. He looked at his granite counter, and behind it, the wall. Where a mirror would normally be, there hung artwork with black frames in fancy shapes.  

Joel climbed in the dry tub fully clothed, sock-footed. He wrapped his cardigan tighter around himself, rested his head against the porcelain, and lay there in the empty tub. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, it hit him. He could draw you a bath. It’d been a long time since he’d seen a full bath in real life, but he’d seen plenty in movies. He could bring in some flowers, light some candles.  It was so comfortable there in that room. 

Baths are good. Relaxing. Romantic. He knew this. He knew a lot. Everything he watched, and a lot of things he read, were all about human culture and practices. It was impossible not to absorb the knowledge, he just wasn’t used to accessing it for practical purposes. But he was getting better at it. He had to give himself credit for that.

—

When you woke up, Joel was sitting on your bed, pensively reading his journal.  When he noticed you were awake, he took off his glasses and folded them into his v-neck.  “Morning, honey,” he whispered, and gave you a kiss on the forehead. Then he reached over to the table on his side. He had ordered coffee and a croissant from your favorite cafe–the one where you met. You sat up, accepted the tray, and sipped your coffee. 

“You know, i’d really like to go back to that cafe,” you admitted, then tried to appeal to his way of thinking. “Wouldn’t you? Back to where we had our first date?” 

Joel smiled and his eyes sparkled. “Yeah.” He jotted it down in his journal. “But hey, today, I got a surprise for ya here. Gonna show you somewhere new.” 

“A new room?” 

“Yeah. I’ll be back in a bit, okay? You can change into this.” He left you a silk robe. 

—

—

With you by his side, Joel rolled open the massive doors to reveal the air of a gothic cathedral. Steam rose from the claw-foot tub. Candelabras flickered on the walls. The stained-glass window bathed the water in red. The fireplace was on, flowers were on nearly every surface, and the air smelled of patchouli. 

Joel asked if you wanted him to turn around while you got in, but you said it was okay. He took the silk robe off your shoulders and admired your beautiful back. “You’re so pretty,” he muttered. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” He held his hand out and you used it for balance as you dipped a toe into the water. “How is it?” he asked. 

“Perfect,” you answered, and he beamed. 

As you sunk into the water, Joel stood and watched, holding an old book with both hands.  He was so strange, but the strangest thing about him was how normal he seemed sometimes. Like a hot professor with a few screws loose. 

Settling into the water, you brought your knees to your chest. 

“Anything I can bring ya?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” you answered. 

Joel hung up his cardigan on the wall, then dragged his throne-like chair in front of the fireplace and sat with his book in his lap. He was posted like a lifeguard, alert and pleased to see you enjoying the experience he set up. 

You looked at him, wondering if he wanted something. 

He assured you, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna leave ya.” He couldn’t risk you drowning on him. 

“Oh…” you replied. “Okay.” 

Joel nodded confidently, then remembered quietly to himself,  “Oh.” He took his glasses off the front of his softwash v-neck and put them on, then opened his book. “You won’t even notice I’m here,” he smiled. 

It was a really beautiful room. Warm and cozy, even with the high ceilings. A gorgeous chandelier. The tub was roomy, and the water felt perfect. You stretched out your legs and crossed your ankles. 

Joel kept looking up from his book to check on you, so you started to make conversation. “Is this your bathroom?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Do you like it?”

“It’s gorgeous,” you gushed. “What’s this do?” Your thumb brushed a crystal knob that was on its own, away from the other part of the faucet. 

“Oh,  you click it down and it waits 30 seconds then fills the tub,” he nodded. “Automatic shut-off” 

“Cool,” you replied.   

“Oh,” he remembered, “Forgot to show ya somethin’ else. Can I–” he pointed at the tub. 

“Sure,” you answered. 

Joel left his book on his chair, and knelt at the side of the tub. He reached down to the little sidecar and turned on the water spigot. He smiled and looked at you until the spigot stopped. “Just if you want,” he explained, and held up a sponge full of suds. 

“Oh, thanks,” you replied. 

He lingered by the tub. 

“If you want, I could even, uh,” he motioned with the sponge toward you. 

Your cheeks warmed…. hmmm. Why not? “Okay,” you agreed.

“Yeah? ”

“Sure.” 

With both knees on the floor, Joel looked at you with a little smile. Then his gaze drifted down to the clear water, and his eyes couldn’t help but linger.

 “What?” you asked, and he realized he was staring. 

“Sorry, uh,” he shook his head at himself. “It’s just—” he looked into your eyes. “You’re a work of art, that’s all.” 

You sank down a little more in the water and smiled shyly. 

“Hey, careful,” he laughed and reached for your arm to not let you go further in. 

He scanned you head to toe again and added, “Most perfect sight I ever seen.” 

“Thanks,” you looked away. “You don’t have to say that.” 

“What?”

“M’not perfect,” you mumbled. 

“Yeah you are,” his face got serious. “Perfect for me,” he insisted, then mumbled to himself,  “s’why you’re here.” 

Afraid he was making you uncomfortable, he looked down at the sponge and said, “Okay,” shifting into his task.  

“K,” you echoed. 

“Can I touch you? ” 

“Yeah,” you agreed. In truth you wanted nothing more. 

—--

You tilted your head up to look at the ceiling, and Joel started at your neck. He brushed his bite marks with the pad of his thumb and it felt like an apology. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him. 

He gently lathered your neck, then your shoulders. “Wow,” he marveled quietly at the way the suds ran down each curve of your form above the water. He lathered your chest with the sponge. You lifted your arms, putting your hands on the sides of the tub, and he got your underarms. He ran the sponge over your chest again and paused. He took the sponge away and whispered, “God damn,” watching the bubbles flow down between your breasts. 

Turned on by his worship of your body, you rubbed your lips together and looked at him.

“Sorry,” he whispered, “Just gotta, uh,” He showed you the sponge with a nervous chuckle and dipped it into the water sidecar, getting water all over himself. 

He looked down at his wet shirt and you suggested, “You could take it off, if you want.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, if you don’t mind,” he read your face. 

You answered low and soft, “I don’t mind,” with a raise of your eyebrows. 

Joel took a deep breath and put the sponge back in the sidecar. “Okay,” he whispered. 

He reached over his back and took his shirt off. You drew in a deep breath through your nose, admiring his strong shoulders and the smattering of soft brown and gray hairs on his chest. He took off his glasses, folded them, and put them aside with his shirt. 

Joel bathed you in silence, lips parted, corners of his mouth glistening. He took his time, and his eyes roved your body. When he got to your inner thigh, you shuddered and got goosebumps everywhere. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. 

You shook your head, “Don’t stop.” 

He glanced at your face with a dark, hungry look, then his eyes settled on your peaked nipples. He tilted his head slightly, and wet his lips. He bit his tongue then slid it across the roof of his mouth and back before shaking himself out of the trance. 

He continued bathing you in silence. He looked so hot, biceps bulging with every movement. His strokes were sensual and hit your skin just right. Your back arched and your eyes closed. 

After finishing with the sponge, he put it back in the sidecar.He brought handfuls of warm water up to your neck and chest to wash away the suds.

He paused the rinsing and broke the silence. His voice was soft and deep:

 “Do you ever think about, uh...” He paused. “If ya might like to—i mean….if I could do anything for ya—not just about blood, I mean–” He took a deep breath. “Guess what I’m tryin’ to say is, I know that’s when we normally do stuff, but we-”

With your eyes still closed, you found his hand and put it on your breast. 

“don’t have to wait,” he whispered, completing his thought. 

“Yeah,” you agreed with your eyes still closed.  

He slowly began to massage your breast, and when he thumbed your hard nipple, you moaned, “mm.” 

“That feel good?” he whispered. 

You nodded and your brow furrowed.

He kept doing what he was doing, and without stopping, he made his way behind your back at the end of the tub. Then, slotting his hands under your arms, he pulled you up in the water a little. He cupped your breasts from behind, and circled his thumbs around your nipples, making you take a deep breath. 

He murmured, “I’d do anything for ya.” 

‘Mmm,” you moaned, and he continued the motions of his thumbs 

“Anything to make ya feel good… and safe”

He covered your breasts with his palms, cupping them, then lightly moved his palms in circles over your nipples.

“Joel,” you whispered, “Mmm,” your back arched. “Don’t stop,” you pleaded. 

He continued with his palms, then slotted both nipples between his spread fingers. 

You moaned, and he lightly dragged his open fingers down your breasts, slow and light, each digit going up and down as it crossed your nipple. He dragged his fingers up again, and then went back to using his palms.

“I’m–” you began. “--mm”

He could see you squirming under the water, pressing your thighs together,  “Shhh,” Joel reassured you. “I know, sugar.” 

He cupped your breasts again, and you reached a wet hand out of the bath and dangled it behind you, groping for his crotch. He pushed his hips forward, and the hard shape in his soft pants met your wet hand. He took a deep breath, and so did you, and he watched your body writhe under his soft touch, until you released the most beautiful moan that echoed through the room. 

“Yeahh,” he cooed into your hair, “that’s it, that’s good.” 

Your body spasmed again, and he wrapped his arms around you as you finished your peak. You leaned your head back against him. He kept one arm around your chest, and cradled your head with the other.With an open mouth, he kissed your cheek slow and soft. 

“Mm,” you sighed.

“How ‘bout we get you dry?” he asked. “Then i’ll warm ya back up.” 

—---

Once you were dry, he carried you to the bedroom and laid you down gently on the smooth sheets, admiring your nude body. The room was dim, and he was still shirtless. He kneeled onto the bed and cautiously moved toward you. His face hovered over yours, and you admired his eyes, lips, and neck. Then you met his eyes, his face drifted closer, and he pressed his lips into yours. You kissed him back, and his pants grazed your bare thigh. 

“Uh,” you shifted under him. “Your pants are kinda wet.”  He looked down at himself, then asked, “Should I…” And you reached for his waistband to help him unbutton.

After discarding his pants on the floor, he was left in boxer briefs and the thick outline in them made your breath hitch. He got between your legs, and brought his face back to yours. 

He kissed you softly, and when you kissed back with hunger, he matched your intensity. Moaning into your mouth, he cradled  your head with his left hand. You slipped him your tongue and he accepted it gratefully. After a minute of kissing, his lips left your mouth and his hand slid down your head to your neck. On the other side of your head, he kissed down your jawline to your neck. He pulled back and studied his bite marks on your flesh, and you reassured him, “it’s okay.” 

Holding your neck gently, his massive hand made you feel small and delicate. His lips lightly brushed the overlapping sets of circular wounds in different stages of bruising. Then his nose brushed your skin. He sniffed around your jugular, down to your collarbone, then back up. His tongue brushed your tender skin lightly, then he pressed a soft kiss into the crook of your neck. 

“You can do it,” you offered. “You can take some.”

“No,” he declined. “That’s okay, sweetheart.” 

“You can, I like it,” you reminded him. 

“I know, I like it too, baby, but—doesn’t have to be every time, right? This is different…” 

“Sure,” you agreed with warmth rising to your cheeks. 

“Other ways I can make ya feel good,” he added. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. 

“Want ya to feel safe,” he whispered, then kissed your neck again. “Want ya to know I can control myself.” 

You bit your lip, then whispered, “I know you can.” 

Joel’s kisses trailed from the side of your neck down to the dip in the center of your collar bone, where he dipped his tongue, then dragged his lips down your sternum. He cupped one of your breasts and moaned into the other. He licked the nipple, circled it with his tongue, then sucked. He kissed the outer curve of your breast, and the top, and the bottom, before kissing your nipple again. He moved to your other breast and suckled at it, breath getting heavier through his nose. He looked up at you with sparkling  eyes and murmured, “Every inch of you tastes like a dream.” 

You fingered his hair and he nuzzled his head into your touch, briefly closing his eyes.  You pulled him toward you and kissed him again. He laid his chest against yours and it made your skin buzz. 

“You’re warm,” you marveled. 

“I guess it’s you,” he explained. “Only when we’re this close.” 

“It feels good,” you whispered.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “It’s our skin together, sweetheart.” 

“Can I, um. Can I feel more of your skin?” you asked, and slid your toe up the side of his thigh to the edge of his boxer briefs. 

He paused and looked back and forth between your eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he answered. “Of course.” 

He shed his boxer briefs and gently held his cock against his happy trail, making his shaft press into the padding of his lower stomach. “I don’t wanna, uh.” 

“What?”

“Touch ya any way ya don’t want,” he answered. “Might not be what you’re used to, either.” He glanced down at himself. 

You reached toward his crotch and covered his hand with yours. “Can I feel?” you asked. 

He wet his lips and nodded, slipping his hand out from between your palm and his package. 

You palmed him and his cock was warm and stiff. It was commanding and uncut. Your palm gently nudged the smooth skin of his shaft, and he moaned with his eyes closed. 

“It’s so hard,” you gushed just above a whisper.

“That’s you,” he answered, “That’s your blood,” and those words seemed to heighten your lust and his. He gently held your neck again and kissed you on the lips like he needed you bad. You were still holding his stiff manhood, but wanted his body against yours. 

You broke away from his lips wih a moan and whispered, “I need your skin on mine.” 

You moved your hand, dropping his cock onto your mound, making you moan as you used both hands to cradle his head, then carded your fingers in his hair. His cock swelled against your clit and he subtly thrust against you. Your hips lifted to meet his rhythm and your chests heaved against each other. 

“You know how bad I wanna be inside you?” he asked. 

“Mmm,” you answered, “I can feel how bad.” He was throbbing hard against your front. 

“But we gotta trust each other first,” he said with a slow thrust against you. He closed his eyes and dipped his head so his cheek was touching yours. “God, I want it,” he whispered in your ear. “But I gotta earn your trust.” 

You lightly massaged his scalp with your fingertips and said, “I want it, too.” 

“Of course we do,” he said, and kissed you on the lips, long and soft, still slowly grinding on you. Then added, “We’re meant to satisfy each other.” 

He kissed you on the cheek, then the neck, and the forehead, slowly grinding his stiff cock against you, with the heat of his chest on yours. “The way we’ll fit together,” he panted, “like nothing we’ve ever felt.” He brushed your temple with his thumb and kissed you desperately, in rhythm with your bodies moving together. You moaned, and he added, “I’m tellin’ ya, sweetheart. ‘S’gonna be—ohh—celestial,” he breathed, and moaned again. He was leaking precum onto your tummy. “Whole other dimension,” he whispered, then kissed you again. “God damn,” he panted. “I gotta calm down,” he chuckled.

He pulled his hips back and his cock slid down, wet against your clit. He paused to let it rub against your cunt for just a moment before he pulled back more, and kissed his way down your stomach. He kissed the trail of his pre-cum, open-mouth, a sight that made you weak. The closer he got to your mound, he used his tongue more and more. Then he put your legs over his shoulders. 

He stared at your glistening cunt and whispered, “gorgeous,” then he nudged the bridge of his nose into your wetness as he sniffed up your folds. “God,” he whispered, then used his tongue, firmly licking up your cunt then circling your sensitive nub before giving it a long kiss. He licked into every hidden place of your warm, wet pussy and thrust his tongue into you. 

It wasn’t much different than when you had your period, except he started gentle before becoming voracious. He was soon insatiable, and tension was building in your gut. 

“Joel,” you sighed, and he kept going. “Oh, god,” you moaned, “Joel,” your legs curled, prompting him to look up at you with flickering eyes and a shiny face. 

“Sorry,” he exhaled. “It’s—it’s actually plasma,” he explained of your slick. So it was like blood to him in a way.  “God, it’s so good,” he gushed. He dove in for more, licking and sucking and drinking you down. 

When you were teetering right on the edge of bliss, you pleaded, “come back, c’mere,” and he obediently let your legs down. 

He prowled up your body and slid his cock through your folds before laying it hard against your mound. His warm chest and belly laid onto yours, and you groaned and your hips lifted upward. He slowly thrust against you and you began to cum, throbbing against his cock. 

He moaned your name and then, “oh, god,” and began to cum with his cock wedged between the two of you, gluing your bodies together. He sighed vocally, then his lips found yours again, and you kissed through your mutual climax. 

You broke away for air and gushed, “you feel so good,” wrapping your arms around him. 

He chuckled shyly and kissed your neck, then your cheek again, and your forehead. You looked each other in the eyes, and his irises still had a bit of that special shine. He kissed you, and stayed with his skin against yours, then asked, “you okay?” 

You nodded. 

“You okay if I clean up?” he asked, and you answered, “sure.” 

He apologized for the mess as he rolled over onto his back and his cum spread like glue between the two of you. 

You sniffed the air curiously, and he stopped to watch you. As the air of his semen and musk filled your nostrils, a soothing wave moved through your body. 

You asked, “can I, uh,” and dipped your finger into the mess on your tummy. He nodded enthusiastically and watched you bring your finger to your lips. 

You dipped your tongue and your tastebuds were transfixed. You quickly dipped your fingers down to your tummy, gathering as much of the spend as you could, and wrapped your lips around your fingers, closing your eyes and breathing through your nose as you tasted and swallowed it. 

“Good?” he asked

You just barely nodded with your fingers in your mouth and your eyes still shut.

Joel nodded, unsurprised. “‘cause it was made for you,” he said. You got up on your knees and he watched affectionately as you straddled his legs and brought your face to his lower abdomen. 

“Go ahead,” he started to say, but your tongue was already in his happy trail before he got the words out. You licked and slurped it up, and he chuckled, both at the sensation and your eagerness. 

Joel got a warm wet cloth and cleaned you up before cleaning himself and pulling his boxers back on. 

–

You laid together basking in the closeness of each other. You could feel your skin glowing, and his too.  He was face down with his arm over you, and you were really comfortable. 

After a while, he propped himself up to look at you and trailed his fingers down your sternum. 

 “I was, uh, gonna, go get the mail right about now,” he mentioned. “Overcast, just about sunset…” 

“Oh,” your face fell. “Okay.” You tried not to look too disappointed. 

“I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanna come?”

Your face lit up. “Really??”

“It’s just down the driveway,” he clarified. “Long driveway,” he added. 

“Yeah,” you nodded with bright eyes, and sat up. 

“Alright,”  he smiled, and kissed you. 

He went to your closet and brought you an outfit, then left while you used the restroom and got dressed. 

He returned with the leather cuffs, and you gladly handed him your wrist and let him link you together.

For the first time, you were standing right there as Joel opened the big, heavy front door. 

With your fingers interlaced with his, you stepped outside. 

—--

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thank you so much for reading! i really value the affection you all express for him, and hope he's brought some comfort to you. Written with love <333

[caflecthegoblin]

Host talking here, just wanted to say this because, somehow, people are still pushing the Tulpamancy=Tibetan practice myth, and it needs addressing.

Myth/oversimplification: Tulpamancy is, or is based on a Tibetan Buddhist closed practice, therefore tulpamancy is bad because something something cultural appropriation.

Fact: Tulpamancy, or at least the word tulpa, is very loosely inspired by a single chapter in a 1929 book on mysticism in Tibet written by a French Theosophist named Alexandra David Neel, who visited in the 1920s and wrote about a time she supposedly learned about tulpas and even took a crack at creating one (and spending 6 months destroying it after it supposedly became too powerful and turned malicious, hence the tulpa stereotype of the 'imaginary friend turned evil!').

However, there are no contemporary sources, nor sources written by any actual Tibetans or Buddhists (and it's not just a matter of their practices not being written down, you CAN find many texts on esoteric practices of Tibetan Buddhism if you bother to look) to suggest it was an actual practice in those days. David-Neel is generally well-regarded among Buddhists of today for her early look into Tibetan culture, but in the end she is still an outsider looking in.

Most agree that the term as David Neel used it, was most likely a misunderstanding of the term SprulPa, which refers to the earthly bodies that Buddhas manifest as to teach those who have not achieved Nirvana. There might also be a bit of the word Tulku, which refers to individuals who are recognised as the reincarnation of a past teacher, Bodhisattva or other enlightened being (like the Dalai Lama). And yes, there are some Indian Buddhist sources that talk about 'mind-made bodies', but this is less referred to as an ability one can attain with training and practice, and more a power that Buddhas have.

It also holds some vague similarity to the Yidam, a sort of meditational focal point in the form of a Buddha, Bodhisattva or other Tibetan deity or spirit, that the practitioner visualises in vivid detail and then identifies themselves with, in an attempt to internalise their qualities and attributes (wisdom from Manjushri, good health from the Medicine Buddha, compassion from Green Tara, etc). This is considered a higher esoteric practices amongst Buddhists, though not a closed one: if you've done the necessary preliminary practices and been empowered and taught by a Lama or Guru to do the practice, it doesn't matter if you're Tibetan or not. Many practitioners will choose particular Yidams they focus on for whatever reason, and may refer to them as 'my Yidam', but it's important to note that such deities are agreed upon to already 'exist' with the only creation on the practitioners part being the mental image of them, rather than being created wholecloth by the practitioner.

There are older Western practices similar to tulpamancy, such as the Theosophical concept of the Thoughtform, which is described as simple ethereal objects that emanate from one's aura, generated by thoughts and feelings. Or the Fylgja, a sort of spirit of Germanic folklore that is a projection of one's own soul, often taking an animal form or a form of the opposite gender of their respective human. However in neither case is the entity, be it a thoughtform or a Fylgja, considered to be a separate, sentient being in the way a modern tulpa is.

So as far as I am able to glean, the modern practice of tulpamancy is just that: a modern idea. And as loathe as I am to say it, it seems like it mostly just originated from the /x/ board on 4Chan. Some well-read channer probably heard about David Neel and her supposed tulpa experience and decided the word would work great for this concept as they devised it.

Hope this clears things up for people, and helps us get one step closer to finally doing away with this whole myth about Tulpamancy being some ancient Tibetan mystical practice, and that the term is a bad word because of that.