#homer would agree
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I screen-recorded the ‘other posts’ footer of my Tumblr because it looks like Michael Sheen is just walking around in my comics preparing to be Odysseus and it makes me happy
#michael sheen as Odysseus#greek mythology#tagamemnon#greek myth#odyssey#odyssey cast#fantasy casting#homer would agree#michael sheen#is genre perfection
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going through all my old stuff and i just found an old essay i wrote in year 9 when we were studying tomorrow when the war began in school, and in completely me fashion, it is titled ‘redemption is a key feature of homer yannos in tomorrow when the war began’
#god i am literally just me always huh? homer yannos stan since the very first moment#and this essay is actually not half bad like 100% agree with you baby me#like i could rewrite it now as an adult and even though the writing would change the key points would stand#i also found a picture book i had to make in year 9 and lmaoo i was in peak dw mode and it is so obvious#and marvel too? like this book is filled with random screenshots of karen gillan and andrew garfield and catherine tate#just very sweet how past me is so now me in so many ways?? even ten years on??#my post tag
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moth to a flame | leon kennedy x reader
pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader
summary: Break-ups are never easy. Thankfully, you've been preparing for yours for a long time. Leon doesn't let this revelation go for reasons you cannot fathom when he's the one who wants to leave.
word count: 9K
warnings: angst, smut, thigh riding, p in v, kinda body worship, switch leon, he subs for like a moment and goes this better not awaken anything in me
notes: i winged this please don't judge me. also, "plot"-wise, this is an extension of my leon love language post. header template can be found here. enjoy the filth
🌀 read on ao3!
📍 continue to the BAD ENDING!
📍 continue to the GOOD ENDING!
In hindsight, you’ve seen this coming. Your face barely moves at your on and off situationship of two years forcing out, “I think we should break this off.”
So faint and unsure it’s barely above a whisper.
He looks so uncomfortable hunching over, forearms resting on the countertop, breakfast untouched, as if trying to make himself smaller than you, it’s absurd considering the nerves of steel you envy him for, and sure, he’s adorably awkward sometimes for a man of his looks, but not like this. Never vulnerable like this.
The kitchen is gloomy despite the bright winter sun seeping through the windows, almost suffocating because of his uncharacteristically transparent malaise. Leon isn’t one to openly squirm, and in turn, it’s making you all the more nervous — nothing about this is fair when you were thinking you got all the practice needed from imaginary scenarios and possibilities on all the directions the eventual separation would go.
He can’t look at you, shaking his head nervously, choked by the silence. “Say something.”
How funny it is that he’s the most fit man you’ve ever known, could lift you with one arm without breaking a sweat— one bicep literally the size of your head, yet looks like he’d cry if someone touched him right now. It’s a hard to swallow, unreal pill that you’re the one doing this to Leon, making him weak like this.
You’ve never known you had that kind of power over him until now, how he says he wants to break up but would throw up if you actually say yes.
You shift in your seat, the wood of the chair suddenly digs sharply into your skin with how hyperaware your body is of all the surroundings to deviate your attention from Leon, folding your hands on your lap.
The answer is at the tip of your tongue, it was stashed away there months ago. Of course you’ll let him go.
What makes it easier for you is having consented to how absent and private he warned half the things involving him was going to be, or it’s that you knew from the start your time with him would be limited. You just don’t question it; completely skipping the first four stages of grief and jumping readily to acceptance.
The lamb knew it would be slaughtered by the nurturing, kind humans, and yet it still got attached to them; Homer straight up told the readers how the story would end right at the start of Iliad, yet the fall of Patroclus and the rage of Achilles burned the same, if not worse — you knew Leon would inevitably fall apart and run away one day, yet chose to cherish your limited time with him all the same.
It can’t be called a tragedy if you agreed to how it would end in the first place.
Leon Kennedy is ephemeral in his nature, daydream-present and lucid-absent in your life all at once. You thought of him as an outdoors cat, never really yours in the first place, randomly shows up whenever he wants to, reluctantly leaves out of nowhere — a flighty, mysterious companion who’s happy and eager to be there but withdrawn when poked and prodded.
You accept him as such, love him all the same.
You’re not sure if he loves you just as much.
Fondness and like is there, enough for him to have stuck around for this long, but you figure it’s because you’re safe and constant. You’re happy to have provided him with at least that because you’re not sure what he saw in you, to be honest.
What’s happening is painless enough to go through exactly because of this, you hadn’t let yourself get too attached to Leon knowing he isn’t into you as much as you are into him. Maybe you are deluding yourself, maybe you are numb and not as apathetic like you thought you are, but you’re convinced this is how it should go — how it’s meant to go. What’s the point when you’re aware your name won’t be at the top of his list?
The insecurity surely is a small part of the ‘Leon Kennedy Breakup First-Aid Package’ you’ve been cultivating over time in preparation to cushion your own fall when the time would naturally come, but it doesn’t cover the shape Leon is in that even when he’s the one breaking your heart, he looks like he’s shouldering the pain you’re going through on top of his.
This is why you can’t ever be mad at him. You wanted to be with him knowing the way he is, after all.
Leon is a mess despite trying not to show it, his messy straw-blond hair doesn’t shine like it usually does, he hasn’t conditioned it, the golden sheen to it wilted almost. His bloodshot, red rimmed eyes are dim in their blue, laser-focused on the black coffee mug he’s tightly gripping, the skin underneath his lower lashes spread out in faded pink-purple half-rings and it only ever happens when he hasn’t gotten enough sleep in more than a couple days’ time whenever he has to be away for an unprecedented amount of time, or gets buried too long in his paperwork. His thumbs are wiping at the place he puts his lips on and have a sip at the contents of it you’ve seen he fed some liquor to a few minutes prior. He’s awfully domestic in his black sweater and pants, not at all looking like he just asked for a breakup.
You take pity on him.
“I see. Alright.”
His head shoots up, eyes immediately finding yours, no longer blank. He doesn’t seem sure if he heard you right, expression disbelieving. “What?”
“How do you want to do this?” Mirroring Leon’s anxious movements, your own fingers trace the rim of your own teacup. “You could start gathering your things today, but if you want to call it a day, I don’t mind—”
“No—wait—what are you saying?”
“I’m saying okay, Leon.”
He winces at the name, gaze escaping from you again momentarily and he has to blink, the lack of your usual pet name for him must have hurt him, you presume. He has to swallow before talking. “This is it?”
You’re not sure if it’s directed at the end of your relationship or you letting him off easy. “I don’t understand. What else was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, I just—”
This isn’t being hopeful, but you ask anyway. “What did you want me to say?”
He sighs in return, tearing away his gaze and hiding it with a hand that wipes at his forehead.
Yeah, it isn’t your hopes that were crushed. You adamantly tell yourself it isn’t. He’s being nice as he always is, of course he’d question how agreeable you’re being, it’s not like his resolve is going to change. “I’m just being cooperative so we can—”
“Aren’t you angry with me?”
That was the problem?
“I’m not, Leon.”
“How can you not be?”
“Well, I…” It’s because you love him, but bringing this up would only make it harder. “I’m not sure. You’ve been that good to me along the way, I guess. I don’t resent you for anything.”
He has that subtle sarcastic look on his face you would take as mocking if you were a total stranger, but you know better. He’s being self-deprecating. You could read it. But you should, he’s thinking. You should resent me.
You don’t.
The thing with Leon is he’s too good to be true that his only flaw is being a literal ghost. A well-meaning ghost who’d send presents upon presents and work his ass off to make extra time for what he had to give up on every time your plans falls through with unexpected shit that came up from his mystery job at the White House he never talks about that has him battered and bruised each time he turns up after prolonged leaves.
Which is an oxymoron considering how attentive and absent he is at the same time. Sometimes you wondered if he’d fix his habit of being a clam about everything concerning himself after you guys were through, but imagining him becoming more open and changing for someone else hurt too much.
“Don’t you want to know why? I mean—god, why are you just taking it?”
“What do you mean taking it? You’re not doing this to hurt me, look at you, Leon, when have you last slept? It’s hard on you too.”
“That really doesn’t have to do with anything right now,” he dismisses. “How are you this unaffected? I’ll take it if it’s to get back at me…”
“It’s not.” You stand up, appetite lost. You want to wrap your food up and put it in the fridge to eat later, and this way, you don’t have to look at him while saying the sentences you have rehearsed for so long. “If you want to break up, I can’t force you to stay—or into anything you don’t want to. It’s not fair for either of us. You’ll be stuck with someone who you don’t want, and I’ll have to live with the knowledge I’m with someone who doesn’t want me.”
You find him staring at you when you’re done, your hand stays wrapped around the handle of the fridge door at how tortured he is. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shakes his head, blond strands framing his face gently swishing in the air. He does the angry eyebrow scrunch whenever he disagrees with you strongly on something you’ve said, but decides not to at the last minute, and you find yourself the tiniest bit disappointed at him not refusing he doesn’t want you. “You always— you always do this... Be angry. You have to be angry at me.”
You find refuge in the kitchen sink, washing your hands. “Stop it. I don’t want to fight, please.”
“So you are angry.”
“I’m not!” You slam the water shut a bit too forceful and you breathe for a second before turning to him. “I’m not. Angry. I’m sad, yeah. An understatement. Who wouldn’t be?”
He just says, “I’m sorry,” at that, and hates it’s the only thing he can manage to give you, it’s blatant in his face.
You take a seat at the chair directly next to him, you both need the intimacy of good communication at the moment. “But I had a lot of time to mourn, alright? It’s not that I’m taking it or being passive or whatever—”
“Mourn?”
His eyes search yours for a second, and the realization leaves him breathless, the insides of his brows raise up, making him look younger and more innocent. “You were expecting this.”
“Yeah, I mean.” Your lips press together, and you chew the insides before hopelessly shrugging, a small smile doing its best to put itself together. “Look at us. It was never going to work out in the long term. Not really. I consider two years a miracle, to be honest. I don’t know how we got this far.”
“All this time we were together.” Leon’s voice is thick, on the verge of shaking, you weren’t expecting him to take this so badly. His pupils devour all the blue from his eyes, he has never looked at you this hostile before all the hair on your arms rise up. “You were just thinking about breaking up? Have I only ever made you insecure?”
“Not all the time—it’s just—” You swallow. ““Why are you angry at me now? What did I do? You are the one breaking up with me.”
“And here you are okay with this. You’re telling me you didn’t think we’d ever work out when I—” He huffs. “I didn’t even notice a thing. You weren’t happy at all. Ever? You were uneasy all this time?”
“No, Leon, you’re not listening to me. What I expected was that you would leave one day, eventually. Because that’s how you are. That’s how your life is.” He leans back when he gets what you are alluding at, rubbing his face with a hand, refusing to look at you — but out of anger this time around. “I know you wouldn’t be able to stand being in limbo about not letting yourself go and wanting to at the same time. I know you felt bad about everything. I guess it’s just not the right time?”
You don’t say, right person and wrong time, it’s wishful thinking on your part—Leon probably doesn’t think that, someone else seems to take that crown in his heart, you know that all too well.
The muscles on his arm closest to you flexes, he must be thinking about taking your hand in his, so you remove them off the table and nestle them between your thighs. Any physical contact from him might lead to you crying in the end.
“I’m sorry I made you go through all that,” he laments. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
Your head tilts sideways. “It wasn’t about me, Leon. Suppose I sat you down and complained you weren’t open with me, you were distant. Especially when you weren’t ready for the conversation. I’ll tell you what would have happened. Two weeks of radio silence.”
“Ah, c’mon…”
“It’s not something you haven’t done before. You said it was work, but… You know. I get it.”
Leon exhales from his nose and lowers his head, broad chest puffing up with rapid breaths, his neck is getting redder by the second. You’ve never taken him for someone with an explosive anger, but it looks like that could change any second.
“I wish you wouldn’t take this to heart, I’m not saying this to hurt you when I say I knew this was always going to happen.” You’re talking like you’re trying to soothe a tiger, and he especially looks to hate it. “You can’t possibly have expected me to ignore it. And it wasn’t going to come from me either, I’m happy to be with you either way, but—”
“That’s the problem.” He has his head between his hands, like that could possibly hide him away from the conversation. “I treat you like this and you still say that.”
You wish he wouldn’t be this hard on himself.
“I signed up for this.” He tilts his head at that, accusatory, and you get more agitated in return. “I know your circumstances. You can’t help being absent most of the time, I understand. I understand more than you think.” His forearms hit the counter loudly, he looks about to spit fire any second, but you don’t let it happen. “However. It’s no way to continue a relationship, I know that too. My perspective is that it shouldn’t be guilt that comes to your mind whenever you think of me. I wish things could be different. I wish I could be a priority to you—”
Leon’s face sours, and you stop talking when you see it.
You didn’t mean for the words to hurt him as they did, explanations becoming distraught. “Look, I like you, you know this. Possibly too much. More than I should. You have to understand that’s why I’m being this amicable with you right now. Break-ups don’t always have to end in fights, sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s what’s happening right now, isn’t it?”
It doesn’t reach Leon. His gaze is faraway, defined jawline locked clenching and unclenching.
“If it makes you feel better, I was angry for a while.” His hand comes down from rubbing a circle in the middle of his brows, eyes shifting back to yours. “But it is what it is.”
“You’re not even gonna ask?” he says, defeated.
“Would you tell me anything different from what I know?”
He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a sigh, one of his legs shaking, and his head falls forward, curtains of dark blond hair covering your view of his face. For a moment, all you want is to slip your fingers into the silky strands and comb them back, take his heat away, the pads of your fingers on his smooth cheekbones, you know he’d melt into your touch straight away and his expression would lose weight of the strain he carries you can only imagine the root of most of the time, but you abstain.
He wouldn’t appreciate it on the brink of a break-up, you were about to become nothing but strangers.
That’s why it’s abrupt when he leans forward and captures your lips in an unfair, unfair kiss, the force of it makes his teeth clack against yours and you grimace, retreating to break it. His hand slips to the side of your neck to pull you back in, the drag of calluses and heat against the skin of your neck sends goosebumps all over your body, his thumb caresses your cheek in a loving way that hurts but his lips are frantic in their gentler search to open your mouth to his, and suddenly you can’t breathe from how much Leon keeps advancing.
Turning your face away to break the assertive, overwhelming liplock, you take in lungfuls of air as you look as away from him as you can, panicking at the way he presses his forehead to your temple and the way his nose nudges your burning cheek, he doesn’t budge when you attempt to push him off the second you realize you’re enjoying this. He’s built like a fucking tank. “Leon—”
“Say no if you don’t want it,” he breathes, right into your neck, the tickle is mixed with something dangerous that sears your skin along with the low rumble to his voice directly in your ear, and you have to stop yourself from squirming, a coil of incandescence binds its threads together in the depths of your stomach. “Say it and I’ll stop.” One muscular arm hooks around the back of your upper thigh and one around your waist, he quite literally snatches you off your chair and plops you down on his lap, each of your legs hang from the sides of his hips, and you yelp at how effortlessly Leon seems to arrange you to his liking.
He’s needlessly, uncharacteristically cruel. You would always want him. Leon knows this.
“You’re so—” Your breath hitches when his fingers bypass your shirt and sneak up the bare skin of your waist and his other arm readjusts you as he buries his forehead in your shoulder and you gaze at the top of his golden hair kissed by morning sunlight and take in the familiar scent of him and his shampoo. His body against yours leaves a festering sweet longing. “So unfair—you were just breaking up with me—”
He bites down at the meat of your clavicle and you draw in a short breath, the dig of his teeth sting, but he immediately soothes it with a lick and his tongue is hot, too hot. “Unfair?” he groans, you contain the shudder at the emotion he keeps at bay and at the path his blunt fingernails make above the clothing from your hips to the sides of your legs, he’s never been like this. “You already left me in your mind before this and I don’t even know exactly when.” The tip of his nose faintly traces the curve of where your neck meets the shoulder, the tickle is unbearable, aching, you wish he would have left marks instead. “You were always thinking of leaving— our time together didn’t matter to you. What do you think that makes me feel like?”
“That’s not—” You grip both of his biceps and feel the protruding veins and the flex of the muscle underneath the skin, intimidated as always by how both of your hands added together were too small to form a full hold around one. I work out a lot, was his excuse while you were first getting to know each other as acquaintances, and you’d thought how this man belonged with someone of his league. “You’re the one—”
“You dummy, I’m not leaving you because I want to.” Leon’s arms circle your waist and pulls your body flush against his in a crushing hug, his head finding home under your chin and against your chest. It’s innocent and you feel the helplessness, the desire to hold but not be seen, but you don’t know what to do in return, his words don’t quite register. “Why would I ever when I—“ He cuts himself off, breathing shaky as the rest of the sentence dies at his throat. “Jesus, I can’t believe this.”
You tentatively hold his shoulders, surprised at how taut they are. How winded he is like some wire. “I don’t understand.”
“You are just letting me leave like that. Like some business deal done and gone, you just…”
You can’t help the sound that escapes as he bites your earlobe. Why does he keep biting?
“Ow!—“ Leon starts sucking, the wet sounds and his breathing directly in your ear sending shivers down your spine, and you’ve had enough of his thought processes ending up being completed by his lips on your body.
He’s easily able to overpower you, but obeys when he feels you’re genuinely pushing him away, some strands of your hair get stuck on his face and the view of the detained obscenity of his expression —the half-closed eyes and the missing blue, the flush of his cheekbones, glistening of his pinked lips— sends a hot wave downstairs. “It’s you. You! You’re the one leaving, Leon, I don’t get it—“
Some clarity through the pinkish haze of want dawns back to him, and he gingerly combs the threads of hair away from your face, some of them behind your ear. “I don’t want to. That’s the thing. I thought it was clear as day.” Leon searches your eyes, looking down at the details of your face, your heart races as his stare gets stuck at your lips the longest, he isn’t even aware he’s doing it and you feel feverishly desired from his insatiable look, from the slow movement of his Adam’s apple. “But—“
“You can’t help it. Right?” Your thoughts are blurring together, and he’s a black hole pulling you in. “I understand—“
Leon kisses you again, and your stolen exhale turns into a pleased hum. “Stop saying that,” he whispers with inches between your lips, eyes closed, so close your breath is his.
“What do you want me to say?“
“Stay.” He takes your hand and brings it up, planting a singular kiss at the inside of your wrist, and then rests his cheek against your palm. You can only stare at the vulnerability he’s offering you on a silver platter, the tormenting softness is blinding. “Stay.”
Your heart soars. God, you’ve longed for him to give away that he wants to be with you all this time, the insecurity is a blanket you’ve hidden under, this is it, but he’s so torn and you don’t get his struggle, what he must be hiding for such a visceral reaction. He wants to, but he can’t, and you don’t know why, having accepted he wouldn’t tell you from the start anyway.
But you ask. You ask anyway. Hope is a flightless bird waiting for her wings to grow each day. “Will you?”
Something shifts, a delicate moment broken, and Leon draws back, his eyelashes flutter as if he’s shaking off some daydream — and then he’s upset, a pinch in his brow. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I can’t—“ You’re grabbed from the arms and scooted away from his lap, putting some distance between the two of you. Leon is physically pained, unable to meet your eyes. “I don’t know why I’m being like this.” He holds your hands between the two of you, and you get whiplash from the passion just mere seconds ago and the tenderness of this touch. “I can’t keep doing this to you. I don’t know why I’m this unreasonable, it’s so childish— Shit. I’m sorry, I’ll just—“
“No.” You cup his face in both hands and he looks like an abused puppy tasting kindness for the first time. “Stay for a bit.” Your heartstrings are tugged by the way Leon’s eyes are lit up. “I want to have you. One last time. Is that alright?”
A beat passes.
“Yeah,” he says, blanking out at first, but then repeats stronger, his fingers sink into the plush of your thighs as he licks his lips. “Yeah.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, somber. “You can have me however you want.”
Leon doesn’t look like he’s particularly looking forward to it. “You sure?”
“I’ll always want you, any day, any time,” he says, and you’re flabbergasted at the burden of his meaning. But you force yourself to look past it, look past the unguarded and unarmed honesty, choosing to interpret it in the language of lust.
“Not here, though.” You get up from his lap and he doesn’t stop you. “It’s kinda cramped.”
“We can make it work if you’re up for it,” he half-teases, one corner of his lips curling up, his eyes are humorless.
You snort. Easy for him to say. He’s fit, you aren’t, that’s why being on top can’t last half the time without his assistance. “You can. I certainly can’t.”
“You keep saying I can’t to me, knowing I take it as a personal challenge.” Leon’s touch moves up your forearm and in one swift move, he pulls you in between his legs. He leaves a kiss at the lower valley between your clothed breasts. “Maybe you’re doing it on purpose?”
You’re heating up right away. “I’m not—”
Leon pats his right leg, pulling up the sleeve of his shorts all the way up to the hipbone, exposing the well-endowed, firm thigh. “Sit here.”
“Your leg’s gonna get a cramp,” you say, but it’s hardly a complaint, your crotch has begun to contract at the thought of feeling the flawless skin slipping against your slick folds and how he would mold the tendons to fit just right for your pleasure. Expectation was pulling you tight right from the start where he had you hanging from his every word.
Leon’s almost offended. “It won’t.” But his encouragement is gentle. “Come on, sweet girl.” Hooking one arm between the two layers of the bands of your underwear and pants, he lets them snap back against your skin after he pulls considerably. “And you’re taking off all that.”
You let it go. Immediately. “Fuck, okay.”
It’s morning. You’re in the middle of the kitchen. And you’ve forgotten all of that, head lost in the beginnings of a dull throb between your legs. Your dignity would have been trampled on if you were too enthusiastic, so you try to take your time, and he asks, “How do you want to go about this?”
“Huh?”
His hands ride up your knee and inch up, his thumbs in the line of your inner thighs, and your first instinct is to press them together to alleviate the ache, but Leon’s forcing them apart. “You can have my tongue or fingers first. To help the friction.” You swallow when the nail of his thumb scratches the material of your panties and feels the slight dampness, and he’s watching your reactions very closely. “Or you could just sit down.”
You don’t have strength left in your knees anymore, head spinning with the way his darkened, narrowed gaze is simultaneously bearing down on and looking up at you, and Leon helps you settle your weight on his leg after sliding your underwear down your legs, the warmth of his palms on your naked hips alone is vexing enough and it’s embarrassing that he feels the particularly strong pulse of your sex.
He angles his leg up and you slide forward with the gathered moisture, arms catching onto his neck in surprise from the sudden jolt of pleasure. “Eager, are we?”
You aren’t normally bold like this, would let him keep softly teasing rather than give the same energy back, but there’s a certain finality to this time, your brain is liquid smooth from the tantalizing delight of his touch, and you don’t hold back to inform just what he does to you breathily. “Always for you.”
The movement of his leg staggers and you look up to see him caught completely off guard. And the next thing you know, Leon has you in a bruising kiss, or you think it has the strength to bruise, he hasn’t been this rough before, and you certainly haven’t been craved to this extent in your entire life before him.
This time you accept his tongue willingly into the cavern of your mouth, his fervent licks and gasps rise the question of who’s really the more eager one here, but it doesn’t really occupy space in your mind, limbs stilling overall from how he steals away all bodily functions with just kisses that radiate desperation.
Leon ushers your hips to languidly move when you fail as a multitasker all the while the swirl of your tongues continue to tangle, and it proves difficult as your slide against him becomes smoother and wetter with him finding just how to pull the hood of your mound while you’re pulling back and drag against it in the correct angle, flexing his thigh accordingly.
He pecks your jaw. “Faster?”
Skin contact goes straight to the tightening spiral in your stomach like this. “I can’t—”
“Don’t say you can’t.” He does something that has you dropping down from heights by circling his leg, and completely out of your control, small noises emerge from the back of your throat and you can’t kiss him back anymore. “Do you want it faster or not?”
You try to hum in agreement, but he catches you in the middle of it and jerks you forward, the sharp zap electrifies all your nerves and grants him a startled moan, you can barely see the satisfaction in his face from the sudden tears. You were somehow in control of the pace previously, but once he knows you want it faster, it’s him that anchors your hips to the edge of the stars, a man on a mission.
Leon begins to leave open-mouthed, wet kisses on your neck that has you tilting your head to give him more room, and you’re glad his heavy gaze isn’t drinking in your bliss-stricken expression anymore. “You hear that?” His question is thick. “Listen.”
The noises your wetness make sliding across the muscles of his thigh in a rapid speed makes some of the blood rush up to your cheeks, and the knot is stretched so agonizingly beyond the point of no return that you’re hurling towards absolution, legs beginning to shake and your whines become sweeter. “Leon,” you pant, the fever to keep going as he is conveyed in one singular word reaches him. “Leon—ah, mmh— I’m— Leon!”
“Yeah, I got you.” Adoring kisses are peppered along your jawline and your fingers clutch to his blond hair, pulling him in, your stiffened, perked up nipples are smushed in the press of his chest against yours, and you arch into him like a cat, lost in the ascending ecstasy. “Just let go.” He bites down and your sore walls clench around nothing, the pulsating increasing in intensity. You’re on a thrill ride, shooting up, up, up— “Come for me, sweet girl, come on, give it to me.”
With a sharp, choked cry, and the throw of your head back, the coil explodes and unravels, white sparkles in your vision, and Leon holds you down when your body tries to fly off with the force of your orgasm, the sinking of his hands into your sensitive flesh only heightens and sends crashing waves as he helps you ride through it, rocking lazily with you back and forth.
“Oh god,” you shiver, clinging to him, upper body basically draped across his chest as the pleasure rolls into a stinging ache of pain with the overstimulation, bones jiggly from the floaty feeling to get away yourself. “Too much. Leon. Too much.”
His voice is croaky. “Yeah, we’re not done yet.”
He stands up with his arms supporting your legs around his waist, and you hold on for dear life. It scares every single time he does this. Leon makes it look so easy to carry you around from room to room without breaking a sweat.
The full meaning of his words only get to you when you’re thrown on the bed, wind knocked out of you. “Leon, wait, aren’t you going to Spain tomorrow, don’t you have to prepare—”
“I’m preparing,” he says, putting one knee on the bed and oh god, the shine on his thigh, the drench, that was all you—- “Need to get my fill of you to last for the whole trip, yeah?”
It’s more like he’s saying, ‘To last for the rest of my life’, the hunger and melancholy makes for a Frankenstein’s monster of ravenous, unquenchable yearning when you’re right in front of him and your flame is rekindled.
More than one round with him is uncommon most times because he’s simply busy and moves around a lot, you weren’t used to the practice, build wired to exhaustion taking over when he was finally done with you, either hot, heavy and fast or sweet and intense, each time leaving you with honeyed sore bones and the best sleep following right after.
Arousal pools in the pit of your belly thinking about what comes next.
Kneeling at your feet, he taps your tight-locked knees. “Open up for me.”
It’s morning. He could see every detail of imperfection in this light and uncertainty washes over you for a second before you do as he wishes, the sheets crinkling and rustling beneath your shifting, and he gets on his stomach and puts one of your legs to his shoulder when you thought he would be entering you already.
Flustered, you get up on your elbows. “Leon, you don’t have to.”
“Didn’t think you wanted to get it over with right away.” Sliding his hand up, he fans his fingers on your tummy, thumb pulling at the skin dipping into your vulva, and looks up at you from his eyelashes. Little sparks of pleasure light up at each stroke. The weight of his arm is wonderful. “Breaking my heart over here.”
“It’s not that, I…”
He scooches up, and the knowingly feather-light kiss he leaves on the inside of your thigh, close — right there but not there, makes your leg twitch. “Oh, you wanted something else?” The teasing view of Leon inches away from where you wanted him was a sight for sore eyes, but his sudden hot breath on your post-orgasmic sopping heat broke your daze, making your hips attempt to jump up, but his arm had you absolutely pinned on the mattress. “Well?”
It’s not something you’d planned, but his wanton beauty looking up at you shoves an image inside your brain unexpectedly, reminding you how you’d said you wanted to have him, not the other way around. This is going to be the last time Leon would be like this with you, and there were so many things left unexplored. What would it feel like to have this feline-gracious, strapping man underneath you, to run your lips through his unbelievably sturdy body all over and return the kindness on how good he’s been taking care of you? Leon was always perfect to you. Is perfect. Your wish to present him with how exactly on top of the world he has you feeling for your final time, to return the favor.
Leon has stopped moving and it’s because of your lack of reaction and the long look of contemplation regarding him. You lift his hair away from his eyes. “Can you lay down on your back?”
“You wanna get on top?” he asks, but doesn’t object to it, moving up on the bed and sitting up, getting the hint on taking off his clothes, enamored, you watch his abdomen flex and limbs stretch like a cat’s as he slips his shirt off and throws it away and shimmy off his briefs. Every single movement of his is a wonder.
“No, I want to touch you,” you say, stare not knowing where to focus on him and his half-hard dick jumps at your words. “Explore you.”
He meets your eyes, pupils blown, and swallows, nodding. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I wanted to have you, remember?”
There’s a semblance of a laugh and Leon rolls on his back, one knee up and hands on his stomach, blond hair fanning around his head on the sheets. He looks like a sculpture. “And how will you have me?”
“Pleasured without thinking of pleasuring,” you explain, he’d be better at the dirty-talk in your position, perhaps say something like ‘Crying for me’, but you’re way too fascinated by him to think about what would have him helplessly turned on. “Vulnerable.”
You would be lucky if you are able to push him to the point of not even one thought behind those pretty blue eyes, but you just want to make him feel good, and with that in mind, reach a hand and trail the tips of your fingers through the prominent web of veins along his forearm, his fingers jump, and you continue through his upper arm, lingering on the sharp lines of lighter-colored small scars until you reach his shoulder, feeling the cluster of the goosebumps that rise in his skin.
“Seriously?” he says with an annoyed timbre and you see him having gone completely hard, eyebrows shooting up in shock. “You’re going this slow? Am I some package you’re unboxing?”
“You seem to be enjoying it,” you murmur in interest, and Leon sulks at how you run all five of your fingernails all the way down the lower of his belly button and how it’s hardly even a graze at all. His abs keep contracting. “I barely touched you.”
“You, haah,” he sighs at you straddling and hovering above him. “Don’t need to point that out.”
Leon tries to hold onto your thighs but you maneuver him away, and unsurprisingly, he isn’t pleased by that, groaning. “Oh we’re doing this?”
“I’m touching you. Stay still like a good boy.”
It’s your usual banter, but for some reason, he turns his face away and closes his eyes for a second, wetting his lips as if his mouth is dry. The line of his neck clenches and unclenches and you feel the brush of his dick lightly hit the inside of your leg. You’re fascinated again. He likes this more than you expected. “God, you really want to kill me.”
Leon could stop it if he wanted to. Switch it around. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before. All the times you’ve attempted to ride him and your knees and calves failed you, he ended up sitting up and hugging you close, fucking up into you and kneading your insides from below and littering your shoulders with angry red marks, taking control of the pace, especially riled up from how endearing and sexy you were trying your best to pleasure him, in his words. He can do it again, but doesn’t. Just lies there, all for you, stuck between a rock and a hard place — which, in this case, is his discomfort and enjoyment. The lack of stimulation gets him going.
You lean down and nip at the corner of his mouth, and he responds immediately, turning back to you, chasing the kiss. His hands come up to your waist but you take them off, pinning them to his sides, and Leon complains through sharply breathing into your mouth. “I’ll only,” Kiss. “Hold you.” Kiss. “Please, just let me—” You lightly bite his tongue.
As if he couldn’t do it if he truly wanted to. He is letting you do this to him. Pleading. In that tone of voice, too. You’re in over your head, what is happening?
“No,” you say, kissing his jaw and caressing the hinge of his opposite jaw with your thumb, sounding stern but feeling silly inside, unsure if he’s amused by you deep down. But Leon huffs again like a spoiled brat not getting what he wants.
You’re shell-shocked, but continue your pursuit to find out what else he likes, settling on his ear, making a line through the outer rim of soft tissue with your tongue and sucking kisses until he’s shifting around, you can hear how he’s trying to level out his breathing, then you bite, and he hisses as you repeat it over and over again.
You’ve heard that some men enjoy getting their nipples played with, and you caress and massage, knead and fondle all over his torso with both hands as the switching of your gentle and silky mouth and the needling pleasure of teeth assault his ear, and you listen to his heavy breathing the occasional hitch of it until you circle around one nub, and flick it, rubbing down and pressing the pebbled nipple inwards, just like how he does it to you, and twist the other one. His face hides itself in your neck, and you let him have that, at least.
His exhale turns into sound and he shuts it down pretty quickly, opting to speak up instead. “Can you—” he begins, and then tuts, sounding nonchalant, but you hear it. You hear the thickness of contained arousal. “Can you move on already?”
“You want the other ear?”
His head jerks in your position at you saying that straight into his ear and breathing into it, you know the thin sheen of saliva coating it makes the sensation sharp and cool and warming at the same time. “No—” he says, but you ignore him, cutting the rejection off by taking his other earlobe between your teeth. “Jesus Christ, this isn’t necessary—”
“If it isn’t, why is this wet?” You ask, watching him closely, tapping the pearl of clear liquid gathered at the tip of his ramrod straight hardness. It’s scalding hot, throbbing at the contact. Leon hisses between his teeth, trying to contain it, and sighs as your index finger circles the tip to spread it around, another bead of precum swelling in the wake of your touch. His eyebrows are scrunched, lips thinning and returning to their usual plushness with him pushing them together, a dust of pink coloring his complexion, a weak glare is on you. “Just enjoy it.”
“I could if you actually did something already.”
You wrap a tight hand around Leon’s needy cock, heavy and thick, and he shouts, the cry turning into a high-pitched whine you would never dream of coming from him and he clamps a hand on his mouth right in the middle of it, hips bucking into you, head thrown back, blown eyes horrified at what he just did. His breaths are loud and shaky, face turning red in seconds, and you watch, utterly captivated. You’ve seen adorable sides of him before when he lets himself be light and his brow isn’t hanging close to his eyes in that grumpy mood, but what you have right here…
You’re drunk on this side of his, nibbling at his exposed throat. “You’ll take what I give you.”
“God,” he whispers behind his palm, with a subtle tremble when you squeeze once and let go. His hips stutter up before falling back. Leon’s embarrassed. “Fuck.”
He doesn’t retort back, all of the sass packed and left. You can’t believe this is working. That Leon’s obeying you like this. He’s leaked all over your hand. Oh my god.
And you’ve really barely even done anything to him.
You can’t help but wonder if this is you doing this to Leon or he’s just into being bossed around in general.
How further can you push?
“Look, you’ve wet my hand,” you say, bringing your glistening palm up and separating your fingers after circling the gathered precum around, a thin thread forming between the digits. Like a hawk, he watches you lap it all up and you don’t take your eyes off of his, hearing him grip the sheets. “Still gonna act like this isn’t doing anything for you?”
Leon’s voice is gravelly as he rasps, “Kiss me.” It’s something between a request and a demand that if you don’t do it, he will.
You oblige, pushing down on his chest to get him to lie down again when it’s apparently too slow and soft for him, and he avidly presses forward to make it rougher, intertwining his tongue with yours harsher to the point of your mixed drool sliding down his chin for more.
He’s yanking and pulling on his clasp on the dreadfully wrinkled covers in self-restraint as he bites and licks and pulls at your lips, butterflies light up the pit of your stomach and thrash against the liquefied rapture that throbs in your pussy and seeps out, the need for attention growing impatient by the minute.
You go down and focus on kissing his neck, alternating between openmouthed licks and bites, careful not to leave marks, insides doing a summersault at the small noise of disappointment he makes that transitions into husky gasps. Leon still is concerned with suppressing any kind of unbecoming sounds he’s appalled to come out of him, and you’re bothered by that. Pressing your palm on the head of his cock and twisting sure does the trick to vocalize him a bit, restoring your confidence.
“Ah… Can’t you just directly touch it,” he sighs gruffly. “This isn’t enough—”
“You aren’t asking nicely enough.”
His head snaps down, brows raised in disbelief, self-consciousness clouding the teased promise of bliss that edges him on, and you stare back at him pointedly — however, on the inside, you’re worried if he’d ever beg at all.
You twist your palm with added pressure enough to alleviate the pain, but not enough to carry him to the peak he wants to get to, and his shoulders jump up, “Ah!” Biting down on his momentarily trembling lower lip and shaking his head with closed eyes as if he doesn’t want to see you watch him be like this, he mutters, “I’m gonna get you for this…”
You grip the base of his cock so hard his hands fly up to your wrists and with a shuddering whimper, stop at the last second before he touches you and he drapes his forearms on his reddened face instead, his back rises from the bed involuntarily, Leon’s flat-on squirming and hating it.
“That’s not nice,” you tease, pressing your legs together in momentary relief and waves of pleasure that slip on your skin like silk, and narrowly stopping the moan. You breathily add, “What do we say?”
“Please,” so fast and quiet, humiliated. You understand, but don’t let him off.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“Fuck, please, come on, please.” His hands ball into fists and his arm veins pop out and his right knee curls upwards. “You can’t keep doing this to me—AHH—mhhmh—!”
His sentence gets cut off into incomprehensible babbling once you start pumping your fist up and down his neglected erection, not even needing lotion for it, he’s drenched enough to make the slide beyond slippery. You add your other hand into the mix and begin teasing the tip, and his chest, having developed a thin layer of sweat and gleaming in the sunlight, is heaving, and he can’t swallow the gasps and noises anymore, fingernails digging into his palms. You can only see his puffed, rufescent lips from the way he’s covering his face.
“Wasn’t what I had in mind, but I’ll take it,” you say, and it’s genuine. This much alone was too much, way beyond what you thought could happen. Leon is always in control, he has it together so brilliantly that this is actually him falling apart, it’s an enthralling, spellbinding natural disaster so beautiful you can’t look away, want to touch yourself to the sight.
“I’ll show you what I have in mind,” Leon all but snarls, and he has you on your back and pulls you towards him by your legs harshly even before shivers can go down your spine. “Let’s see if you can take that.”
You pushed him past his limit it seems, and he darkly stares you down, eyebrows scrunched and beads of sweat rolling down his temples. sweat-dampened hair curtains his face from both sides. His hand slips behind both of your knees and scratches at the smooth skin of the crevice, shooting lightning directly into your core, and he hikes them up to hook over his shoulder and hugs one bulging arm around to hold them together, lining himself up with your slit with a trembling hand, dragging the cherry red, furious tip up and down, slipping it in for a bit, catching your insides in a tantalizing drag, and then taking it out next, making your toes curl in the air and drawing squeals out of you.
Leon would normally send you to the underground and back from how horribly he’d tease you for being this drenched for him, but he’s strained and silent now, snapping his hips against yours and burying himself to the hilt in the spasming cavern of your pussy in one go, with no resistance from how ready for him you were, ripping a fractured cry from you as your vision blacks and stars dance behind your eyes. He groans gutturally, cock pulsing inside, and you feel the sound in your body. You’re overly sensitive from head to toe, and even the sheets sliding against your burning skin makes your clit throb painfully, deliciously.
He doesn’t start slow or build to something, it’s quick and rough right off the bat as he’s ramming into you with no mercy, and he’s basically catapulting you into glorious completion, but you need more stimulation, more, something more—
He slaps your hand away when you try to reach down to your clit to slip two fingers between your tightly shut legs and falls on his forearms, “No way I’m letting you do that.” Leon arranges your legs to wrap around his waist, grinding against you.
His attention then shifts to something else and he pulls on the sleeve of your shirt that’s still on, a scheming shine comes to the blue of his eyes that worry you, and then he’s leaning in and forcing it up. It’s hard for you to move your back and slip it off with the way he’s pinning you down, and it dawns on you late after you make the mistake of raising your arms that it’s what he wants after all. After getting your head out, Leon turns it inside out around the entire length of your arms that act as a makeshift restraint and leaves it like that, you’re incapacitated with your hands over your head like this.
You whine, this is so about not letting him touch you, and he thrusts up sharply to shut you up, sucking blossoming reds into the crook of your neck, hands pulling and pinching at your nipples. It’s building up. It’s building up, but— “You’re going to come like this.”
The frantic slap of skin against skin is echoing in the room and you struggle against the bunched up shirt around your arms. “Can’t—”
“You’re doing it on purpose at this point.” He laces his fingers into your hair on top of your head, thumb on your forehead in little caresses, contrasting how he fucks you shallow and fast, his voice a couple octaves higher than it usually is as he angles your hips upwards to hit deeper, and your moans are a metronome in beat to his ruthless pace.
“Yeah, that’s right, take it!” Eyes glazed over, mouth agape, the muscles in his thighs jumping, body pulled taut, wrecked and somehow begging, Leon doesn’t leave a single spot unkissed on your face and throat and he’s hurling towards an uncontrolled craze, he’s so close himself. “More? You want more? Too bad, this is it—mmm—for what you just did to me, and you’re gonna take it!”
You’re clamping down on him and he hisses in your ear as you repeat it like a mantra, Leon is wrenching a merciless orgasm from you and you have no control over it, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t—!”
Leon’s delectable weight pins you down as you shoot up with the detonation of the pleasure into a thousand pieces, rippling through your body in building waves, your pussy clenching down on him catches him off guard and he unceremoniously spills into you with a choked, staccato shout shuddering, the succulent warmth coating your insides and adding to the ecstasy, and it just keeps coming, his load is too heavy and too much. Your stiffened legs lock the shivering man in place and tremble around his waist as he languidly rides his bliss out, forehead sticky against your clavicle, the sheer strength with which he holds you against him is euphoric rather than suffocating.
“God, what the fuck was that,” he mumbles at some point, collapsing on top of you and turning you around with him so he won’t crush you, pulling you to his sweaty chest and putting his chin on top of your head. His scent has you in a fuzzy daze. “What did you do to me?”
You don’t respond, consciousness slipping from your fingers and pulling you deep into the sweet comfort of the dark.
You feel his hand on your cheek, lightly nudging. “Hey, you okay?”
“Mhm,” you manage to make out. “Wanna sleep…”
“Okay, sweet girl, I got you,” he says, soft and endeared, from far, far away.
And with that, you’re out like a light.
When you wake up, you find yourself thoroughly cleaned up, in comfortable, cotton pajamas, with no Leon in sight and a small note left on your nightstand with the keys to your apartment on top of it.
It reads: Had to go. I’m sorry about not staying until you woke up. Talk to you when I get back.
You plop back on your fluffy pillows and sigh, chest hurting. It was always going to end this way. In hindsight, you’ve seen it coming.
Your heart doesn’t agree, tears freely falling from your eyes. It’s really over. Leon really left like that. Just as he came into your life.
You don’t have the right to complain. You’d agreed to it in the first place.
#leon kennedy x reader#leon s kennedy x reader#leon s. kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x you#leon kennedy#leon kennedy headcanons#leon s. kennedy headcanons#resident evil 4#re4 remake
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𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 — body worship
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
warnings: steve is kind of a perv in this, but we love it. mentions of male masturbation.
Steve didn't mean to eavesdrop.
He really didn't. He just happened to be restocking the Horror shelves — which had been a mess with Halloween around the corner — while you and Robin were apparently gossiping on the other side of it.
That wasn't uncommon. The three of you were always gossiping like three old ladies at the country club, the only difference is that you were underpaid young adults with too much private information in your hands. Who knew working at a video store would give you that much of a window into people's lives?
That's what Steve assumed you were doing. What you were actually talking about was much, much better.
"Steve hasn't been giving me fuck me eyes. He wouldn't even fuck me in the first place." You were whisper-yelling at your friend, and Steve almost felt guilty about hearing you. Almost.
"What? He totally would." Robin raised her voice a little too much, which prompted a noise that could only be a groan from you. "If you gave him a chance!"
"Robbie, have you seen the last girl he went out with? What's her name again, Hannah? Heidi?"
"Don't expect me to keep up with Steve's love life. The homeric proportions it's taking are too much for me."
"Whatever. Have you seen his ex-girlfriend? C'mon." You huffed, and Steve's heart broke a little over hearing just how wrong you were. "I'm not his type."
"You are even more clueless than I thought."
"I'm not clueless. I'm realistic. No matter how much I'd love that to be true, it's not."
His hands trembled a little as he kept shelving and organizing the tapes. Something in the back of his mind kept telling him that he wasn't supposed to know all that, he wasn't supposed to be aware of your insecurities, but he couldn't bear to be the cause of them.
Despite all that, he had to agree with Robin. He could almost laugh, if he hadn't had to pretend he wasn't listening. It was almost unbelievable how oblivious you were.
He was giving you fuck me eyes, uncontrolably so. He was giving you fuck me eyes because all he could think about was fucking you.
In his defense, that's not totally true. He did think about taking you on dates, and holding your hand. He thought about telling you how beautiful he thought you were, and about making you smile — but all that faded away when he thought about your body.
Since the day you first walked through the doors of Family Video, his eyes couldn't look away. The way you moves your hips when you walked, how you looked with your hair up and your neck was left exposed, making him think of all the ways he could make your skin rise with his lips and teeth on it.
He craved for the times where you would take the night shift on Saturdays with him, when the store closed at midnight, because that meant he would take you home in his car and he would be able to see the way your thighs spread when you sat on his passenger seat. He yearned to run a hand over it and squeeze, feeling your soft flesh under his big hands. Getting to the sacred place between them, feeling you wet and wanting on his fingers.
It was worse when the weather was hot and you used to wear skirts. It made him completely lose his train of thought, instead thinking about bending you over the counter, pushing aside whatever cute little pair of panties you were wearing and drive his aching cock into you until you were both satisfied.
It wasn't much better when you wore jeans, though. Not when he kept picturing his hands hugging your curves, not the fabric that made your ass look like it was sculpted. He'd make sure to walk behind you, as closely as possible, just to run a hand over your waist, or guide you the other away with his hands on your hips, just to get a small taste of it.
Getting a whiff of your signature scent and trying not to get hard, thinking about running his tongue all over your skin.
And when he was in bed late at night, after standing uncomfortably in his jeans all day, finally able to stroke his cock at the thought of you, all he could think of was what he was going to do if he had you right there. All the ways he would worship your body, not leaving a single inch of it untouched.
You, in the middle of his bed, legs spread for him to feast. You, on your stomach, pretty ass perked up for him to grab and grope while he thrust into you until you couldn't hold back screaming his name. You, on your knees, your perfect lips even more perfect around his cock. Burying his face on your tits, on your tummy, kissing you in all the places he wishes he could see.
He just needed to find a way to prove it to you.
#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington smut#steve harrington fanfic#kinktober 2023
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💖 Eddie Munson x Reader Fic Recs 💖
I just wanna show some appreciation for a few of my all-time favorite Eddie fics! Here’s a handful of the series & oneshots that have really stuck out to me in all the time I've been reading - there's A TON of great writers on here who have posted really stellar work :^)
List under the cut!
june baby by @luveline - luveline jade u are a celebrity to me. this was the first Eddie story I ever read and it is so beautiful. it's tender. it's melancholy. it's realistic. it's gorgeous. it honestly makes me feel something I've never felt reading any other fanfiction.
oh, baby by @inknopewetrust - another one of my first Eddie fics! the feeling that this series invoked in me is what I aspire to invoke in others for my own writing someday. it's just so sweet and funny and made me nostalgic, in the same way that watching '80s teen films do, except it's even better because Eddie is in this one. I wanted so badly to just dive into the story and really experience it for myself.
hoping I'll find [a glimpse of us] by @inknopewetrust - this smashed my heart into 1000 pieces, and then promptly glued it very sloppily back together and I've reread it like six times just to reinflict the pain. I love rockstar!Eddie stories that maintain some realism about what that type of relationship would look like, and this fic does that SO perfectly. masterclass in angst right here.
dancing with myself by @ambrossart - this one hits close to home! and even though it hurts along the way, there's a happy ending that it builds so nicely towards! it's beautifully paced & the reader is very funny. you can just tell that the her backstory & relationship w/ Eddie was so carefully thought out, it really feels like this was written with so much love! and I LOVE that it doesn't paint Chrissy as a villain.
10 things I hate about you by @spideyanakin - so glad that we all collectively agree that Patrick is Eddie-coded. and in this fic the parallels are there, without Eddie sacrificing his own unique character - that part is handled really beautifully! and the ST characters are worked into the original movie's narrative so well. it's the perfect mix of fluff and drama!
freaky friday by @jo-harrington - I adore this series! I love this version of Eddie so much I could cry, he is so sweet and selfless, I want to give him the entire world. and an Eddie & Steve body swap? 10/10. lindsay and jamie lee, eat your hearts out.
to know you're mine by @blueywrites - oooohboy. I almost didn’t read this one (just because I would normally avoid swinging/cheating in a fic) but I'm so glad I did, because it was like being on the homer's odyssey of 18+ ST fanfiction. it’s wild. bluey girl u were insane for this. and i mean that as an extremely high compliment. i was so damn invested!
i will wait by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness - there's three chapters, it's on hiatus, I don't care, I will literally keep reading these three chapters over and over again and just fill in the blanks myself if I must. it's that good. you guys are amazing. I am totally enthralled.
rumor by @msgexymunson - this is what turned me on to older!Eddie. I love him, and I desire him carnally, and specifically this version of him. when I daydream about Eddie sweeping me off my feet, I think about Eddie in this series. he's everything to me. I even wrote my own older neighbor Eddie fic because of this!
trapped under ice by @munson-blurbs - the iron grip this fic had me in...I'm still going back and re-reading my favorite parts. it's beautifully developed. this version of Eddie is so real and believable. Harris is my favorite kid he's ever been given. an all-time, truly, I can't sing its praises enough.
siren!eddie by @parkermunson - a monster-ish Eddie fic! I'm a sucker for anything that incorporates mermaids and sirens and the like, so I really love this concept. it's a great story, I love our protective, doting fishboy, and hope to see more of him!
use me by @reysorigins - simultaneously the nastiest and sweetest fic ever. smut, but it's interspersed with these moments of such deep-seated love and yearning between Eddie and the reader that it made me want to cry! incredible piece.
mine and yours by @muertawrites - ahhhh this one is so so sweet! dating is so fucking hard, I think we could all use a comforting, reassuring moment with a sweetheart like Eddie, who is especially kind to us in this fic. I love the way he’s written here.
our patron saint of the arts by @storiesbyrhi - I love an artsy, crafty reader! I feel like Eddie would be sooo into someone who’s creatively-minded like him. this is the dream relationship, basically, these two are adorable together! (and Eddie in a dress! 😗)
And this is just a sample of what’s out there! Some of these are fics that I read very early on, even before I started this blog. I was more shy then, too, so I feel like I never showed them the appreciation I should have! You guys are all so talented, these works are very inspiring to me.
To readers: I encourage you to let the writers know how much you enjoy their work! Reblog! Leave a comment, even if it’s just in the tags! Write a reply, or send them a message, even if it’s on anon! I’m trying to get better at doing these things myself, too 💖
#eddie munson fic recs#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie x you#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson reader insert#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson series#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson angst
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Charles Leclerc (Scuderia Ferrari) - Baby Duties
Requested: on wattpad
Warnings: nons
"What are you going to call her?"
"Coralie, Coralie Leclerc."
That day was something else. The day your baby girl, Coralie arrived to the world. It all seemed so much better than everyone told you it would be. She wasn't crying at night, she wasn't being terrible at all but then then the problems started when you got home. Charles opened up the front door with your hospital bag and let you in holding the baby. You looked around at the homer you missed oh so much and continued on to the nursery to put your little girl to sleep. It was awfully late at night so she would probably be sleepy and to be completely honest, you were pretty tired too. You placed the little creature into her crib and tucked her in. Charles looked on lovingly at his little family. Everything was finally coming together in his life.
You tiredly made your way out of the room and closed the door gently. You heard a light chuckle and reopened your eyes to see Charles staring at you. "What?" you yawned. "Nothing, you just look beautiful as always." He remarked. Even though you felt like complete and utter shit, he made you feel like a princess. "but you look tired so maybe you should go to sleep." You nodded and yawned. "Yeah. Let's go- what are you doing?" you asked as Charles picked you up bridal style and began walking in the direction of your bedroom. "We're going to bed." He replied simply. "I might put on a movie too but it's up to you." Your heart fluttered at his words. "Do you know how much I love you?" you asked him, nuzzled into his chest. "You've said it a few times but I don't mind hearing it again."
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You had managed to fall asleep but the distant cries of little Coralie Leclerc put an end to that. You moved to get up but Charles lay you back down making you a little bit confused. "Charles, I need to go get her." you groaned. "No princesse, you go back to sleep. I'll go get her." You agreed reluctantly and turned back around to go to sleep but in the nursery, they were probably not going to sleep.
"Salut ma fille, Pourquoi pleures tu?" (hello my daughter, why are you crying?) he babbled. Carolie seemed to quiet down a little bit but not much. "Veux tu quelque chose a manger? Ah no. You can't eat anything yet erm..." Charles thought about an alternative and thankfully came up with one quickly before she woke up the entire of Monaco. "Et le lait? Oui? Tres bien." (How about milk? Yes? Great) he said to himself. "Allons y alors, mais nous devons nouse taire."(Let's go then but we need to be quiet.) he said wrapping Carolie in a blanket to keep her warm while they went out to the kitchen to get some milk. " Nous ne voulons pas reveiller votre maman." (We don't want to wake up your mom.) Charles had a peak into the room to see if you were still asleep and smiled to himself when he saw that you were.
"Vous savez, vous et votre maman êtes similaires. Vous êtes tous les deux très exigeants." (You know, you and your mom are very similar. You're both very high maintenance.) Charles chuckled as he began to feed his hungry baby. "Je blague. Je vous aime beaucoup tous les deux." (I'm joking. I love you both very much.) he continued on. "Et croyez moi, à la seconde où je peux vous amener à une course, vous allez à une course." (And trust me, the second I can get you to a race, you are going to a race.)
"Bien, allons au lit." (Right, let's go to bed.) he said once she finished her bottle. Charles walked back quietly to the nursery and placed her back into her crib but then as he began to walk away, she started cying again. "Quel est le problème avec ma princesse maintenant? (What is wrong with my princess now?) he asked softly. "Vous voulez une soirée pyjama? Une chanson peut-être? Tous les deux? Bien." (Do you want a sleepover? A song? Both? Okay.) He gave up and climbed into the crib, hoping and praying he didn't break it or he would get a hounding from you. " Frere jaques, frere jacques, dormez vous, dormez vous? Sonnez les matines, sonnes les matines. Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don." He hummed. Charles looked down and saw Carolie asleep on his chest. He was now trapped in a crib with his baby. How was he going to get out now? He wasn't so he gave in and just decided to fall asleep. Night one of having a baby in the house would be pretty successful if you ask me.
#charles leclerc imagime#charles leclerc oneshot#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc
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What Led To Henry Winters Death
For many upon their first reading of The Secret History, they cannot accept the reality of Henry's passing; This I believe is due to Richard being unable to do so himself—He'd been attracted to Francis sure, wanted to marry Charles even, but he'd been utterly infatuated by Henry.
The book hints at this bitter reality threw it's discussion of ghosts, Francis saying in the epilogue that: ''There are such things as ghosts. People everywhere have always known that. And we believe in them every bit as much as Homer did. Only now, we call them by different names. Memory. The unconscious.''
We reject the second half of the statement, after all psychology is such a clinical word, reality simply is too monstrous. Isn't it so much more sultry and theatrical to believe Henry could've lived on whether in the shadow behind your footsteps, or in some far off land where it's simply a matter of sorting out a passport? Or folded in dreams, where all you must do is turn a page to find him in the seam.
''The dead appear to us in dreams said Julian, because that's the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining at us from a dead star ''
Richard compared himself to Julian in the aspect of neither of them being capable of seeing people for who they truly are, only their utmost qualities; This aspect I agree on—It's how we get so drawn in, causing us to be unable to pull away and see the full picture.
It's how we mistake Henry's qualities as otherworldly, his brittleness and condescension, the way he dresses and what he reads—We see it's beauty, but not it's second face: Henry carry's an umbrella during sunny days due to his debilitating injuries caused by abuse, and dresses in such a manner because his Father was likely his only exposure to fashion he could reference. Not to mention, it was only another example of how the old distanced him from others—And then even his personality?
He grew up with no friends, completely isolated with only tutors and his Mother for company—From what I can surmise, Henry wouldn't have actually known how to make friends; He had no idea how to interact with the real world nor it's social bounds. This is how Bunny's and Henry's odd dynamic developed. Bunny is friendly with all sorts and is highly socially aware, and would've noticed Henry's lack of friends quite quickly—Meaning, Bunny likely was Henrys first actual friend at Hampton, maybe even his first in years.
Bunny although flawed, was the only one who understood Henry on an important fundamental level, and saw him as an equal.
And then there is the matter of our cowardly cult leader Julian—Who I entirely believe is at fault for Henry's passing, as he'd been searching desperately for a Father figure whom would give him approval. The very first thing we learn about Henry even is that he easily would sway his own views to fit Julian's own, when Bunny had made jabs at Henry for buying a pen he had previously utterly dismissed.
Julian knew what would happen when he introduced Henry with the idea of a Bacchanal—Of escapism and ascending; However where as Julian always described it as a rebirth, Henry had described it as not being you anymore ''After all. the appeal to stop being yourself, even for a little while, is very great'' And the further he went on, the more it sounded like a suicide note.
When Julian whipped his hands clean of the group, as now they had become too unpredictable for him to feel the same godly control as he had before—Henry cried. The characters do not cry often, but when they do it's a pivotal moment in the book: In these moments, truly they've hit rock bottom.
Henry hadn't even cried once during his predicament. No, it was once Julian his only source of assurance and value had disappeared and completely abandoned him.
Henry's death ultimately had been spurred on by all sorts of sources; already underlining mental illness, the death of his best friend: And the final straw, Julian's abandonment.
Henry no longer saw a way out from his suffering threw Julian, so he had tried the last thing he could think of—Which was to die in a way he hopped Julian would see as noble, that would mean praise he wouldn't even be around to receive. I believe that's why he held onto life for so long when he was dying, he hoped for Julian to come and praise his actions.
....Fuck sake this stupid tumblr account was supposed to be a small ramble side blog, how the hell did I fucking get here.
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Can I ask you about the scene with Priam?
Before this Achilles is not “sleeping,” bathing, eating, or drinking as part of his mourning process. We see him holding Patroclus’ body, a no-no as the body is “unclean.” (Also, he shaves his head, rolls in dirt, passes out in dirt, etc.) I have seen some takes about how this is part of Achilles’ mourning process for both Pat and himself and how this is him sort of losing the rest of his humanity. Then just-just prior to the Priam scene, Thetis goes to Achilles to tell him to give Priam Hector’s body. Achilles just gives in without any resistance. This is around line 130. She’s like, ‘baby you got to move on from this. Go have something to eat and fuck a woman’ (some of the phrasing here is curious, but it’s not exactly the focus of my question). I always thought this quick acceptance to see Priam was a sign of his deep depression and resignation to his fate.
But then in the scene with Priam he plays proper host. He’s eating and drinking. Then he (debatable imo) goes off to fuck Briseis. It’s like he is literally doing what his mother told him to do. So why the switch from rejecting human customs and needs to engaging in “normal” behavior? As you mentioned, these old stories function differently and don’t exactly have characters arcs with lessons learned. So like wtf is going on? What are we supposed to do with this information?
No disrespect here, but sometimes I think these reversal scenes (which happen multiple times) are just one of Homer’s co-authors/editors going off and doing their own thing and there’s really no hidden meaning at all.
Okay so first of all, I think the notion of Homer's "editors" tampering with the text is a fairly popular one in some circles, I have heard a few different versions of it and I'm not sure I agree or disagree. Most classicists whose work I've read so far, and who work predominantly with Homer, tend to take the Iliad and Odyssey at face value and to automatically assume that the works are the way Homer/whoever wrote them intended them to be. And this is the way I myself engage with the Homeric works, because I think once you go "oh that part here is nonsense, it has probably been changed by those nebulous editors" then you're so much more likely to pick and choose what you like and draw your own conclusions and I don’t think that's fair to the work and the extensive body of work dealing with that work. Ykwim? So let's just say that the Iliad as a whole, and the part you highlighted in particular, are in the fact the way the original epic is meant to be.
The last few books of the Iliad, in my opinion, are the breakdown of Achilles' character. In the beginning, despite his anger and resentment towards Agamemnon, we still see him put together and civil with everyone during the embassy scene, and then again when he speaks with Patroclus, arms him and sends him forth to fight. Then, after Patroclus dies, he loses the plot and goes on his rampage, where his grace, respect and courtesy even towards his enemies fly right out the window. Even after he kills Hector and drags him around, he finds no peace. He refuses to eat, drink or bathe and still yearns and cries for Patroclus. But then, after he sees Patroclus' shade at the beach, is where the second most important change comes about if you ask me; this is when Achilles seems to wholeheartedly accept his death. We have Patroclus' funeral, then the funeral games, where Achilles seems to once again find his nobility and grace, as well as showcase how adept he is at diplomacy and handling the other warchiefs' pettiness and arrogance. Even with Agamemnon he is generous and polite, not exhibiting any resentment towards him.
But there's something different about that scene compared to all the others imo: there is not much of the energy, fire and determination we would see earlier, even when he was grieving. He gives away so much of his treasure too; my friend Baejax and I have often talked about this scene and how it feels like Achilles is giving away his wealth because he has no need for it, since he'll be dying soon anyway. This is a man that has fully accepted that hard behind glory rides death, and that it will be coming swiftly for him.
And this is how I've always seen the meeting with Priam, tbh. For me personally, that scene has always been about grief, mortality and the cost of glory (which is the most important commodity in the Iliad universe) and a meditation on the suffering which unites mankind. Achilles talks about his homeland and the father he has left behind whom he will never again see, about the pain he has caused Priam and his people, about the gods and the ultimate lack of choice that humans have. Men must suffer, he says, and must make others suffer in a world without justice.
So for me it isn’t so much Achilles embracing again the human customs he had rejected, but instead fully acknowledging the reality of his position and resigning himself to it. I don't think that Achilles "plays" the host, so much as he extends his hospitality to Priam (which, again, very important ideal in the Iliad, it's where the Trojan war started in a way. With Paris violating the Achaean's hospitality and stealing Helen), acknowledges Priam's suffering, and acknowledges how instrumental he has been in said suffering. In that scene, killer and victim become one, and with the insight into each other’s condition comes compassion. And I think that's a powerful statement, and perhaps the most enduring in the Iliad. Soon after that, the Trojans bury Hector, which foreshadows and mirrors' Achilles' funeral as well. This "double funeral" completes the Iliad, and its overarching tragedy.
Now. The thing is that Achilles is a really divisive personality to begin with, and the scene with Priam even more so. He isn’t easy to categorise or analyse, and depending on the lens through which one sees his actions and behaviours, the interpretation could change greatly. Rachel Bespaloff in her commentary On the Iliad (which I absolutely loathe and want to tear in little pieces and burn LOL) says that "to rid himself of troublesome responsibility Achilles ducks behind fatality" during the Priam scene, and that his words to the old king are "scandalous behaviour". If you ask me, this take completely ignores Achilles' own suffering and rejects his role in the Iliad as the idealistic, honourable and rigid in his honour and beliefs young hero who almost completely loses his humanity BECAUSE of the ugliness and pettiness of war, because of that suffering, because of his own grief, because of injustice, because of bad leadership, because violence simply begets violence. And it also completely ignores the larger and overarching idea in the Iliad that death and glory, suffering and good fortune go hand in hand. And that this doesn't only apply to good and noble Priam and Hector, but also (you guessed it) to Achilles, in this final scene which is a moment of shared humanity between "enemies" and one of the most poignant in the epic.
Anyway. To conclude this tangent, no, I do not believe that Achilles simply does what his momma tells him to do, nor does he wine and dine Priam for the hell of it. I believe that this is the most depressed, resigned and desolate we see Achilles in the entire poem, a man simply awaiting his death with nothing really to look forward to in life, but who still retains his humanity and treats the people around him with the dignity and respect they deserve.
I hope this answered your question!
#achilles#the iliad#Homer's iliad#listen i just want to chase takes like bespaloff's with a baseball bat until they stop existing#no book has ever managed to raise my blood pressure but this managed it beautifully#thank god a lot of analyses I read these days seem to directly oppose it#anyway it's super fucking late and i'm barely coherent i should go to bed#patrochilles#Patroclus#priam
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https://lithub.com/enduring-epics-emily-wilson-and-madeline-miller-on-breathing-new-life-into-ancient-classics/
What's with Madeline miller and Emily wilson claiming that they are bringing something new in Greek mythology and being applauded for it?
Emily also is a translator and from what i read completely changed the meaning of words and characters like calling Agamemnon a cannibal king. A translator's work isn't making their own story on top of the old one.
It's disrespectful to Homer's work and he gets overshadowed by modern authors that push modern ideologies into classic works that should have stayed neutral.
Why are western writers like this ??? 😖😖😖 I read the interview and I would say some parts of it were okay but I will mention here the ones that gave me secondhand embarrassment:
My god, this can’t be real. The literature class in American school has messed up many brains. Dogface, κύνοψ in Ancient but surviving in Modern as σκυλομούρης - σκυλομούρα is a swear word. More precisely dog-face could mean someone ugly whose face looks like a dog’s, but it could also imply a cruel looking face, a lowlife whose lowlifeness is evident in their face and so on. The struggle of modern translators and academics is unreal - “we can’t use a bad word for a woman - perhaps she meant dog-face as a symbolism of loyalty, of a fierce huntress like Artemis, of an obedient and long lasting friend uwu” - no sweetie she meant: “I hate myself, I am a bitch and as repulsive as one”. Sorry. Meanwhile, swear word for a man; “Clearly, it can’t just be a swear word spoken in anger, Agamemnon must in fact be a cannibal” 🤦♀️🤦♀️🤦♀️
Yeah, great. Just head on acknowledging that Iliad is not as queer as young American audiences are misled to believe. I love how there is a vibe of apologism in the air because Wilson, as a translator, didn’t have the endless entitlement to go as berserk on the characters as Miller did. I also love the iconic addition that “admittedly there aren’t many queer warriors and athletes in American culture” so she implies they have to keep Patrochilles (🤦♀️) at any cost! NEWSFLASH: ACHILLES AND PATROCLUS ARE NOT A PART OF AMERICAN CULTURE!!! Whether gay or straight friends - they are not part of your Marvel and DC culture!!! Oh my god!!!
What’s your business responding to readers’ expectations, Emily? Your business is to translate Homer for English audience. Whether they will like it or not, it’s their business. You are not appointed to “excuse” Homer to anyone or make him palatable to Marvel fans! Jfc
I will say I agree with her that Achilles and Patroclus’ relationship is ambiguous but I hate that she clearly dreads to openly admit that for fear of what American 17 year olds will feel about it. It is another example of how the last years the definition of truth has morphed into what one wants to hear rather than what is factually the case.
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I am laying a hand so very gently on the shoulders of people reading and sharing the Emily Wilson Iliad translation and begging them to stop looking for shipping scenes in a new translation of an ancient literary text. Wilson is creating more eye-opening and more accurate yet progressive translations of works that is very much true. Your Achilles x Patroclus ship scenes are... not going to be added in. Translating text and writing historical fiction are not the same and in no way is Emily Wilson the same as Madeleine Miller. If you want to read added explicitly queer scenes in mythological texts then go ahead and put down the translation. You are, at best, going to get subtext. If Emily Wilson had uncovered the scenes you are looking for then it would have made news, much like her Odyssey translation did for its discovery of previously omitted women.
My research expertise is, in-part, dedicated to finding historical queer themes and subtexts and I still have to tell you Homer was not explicitly writing *~* soft patrochilles *~* scenes. Is there queer subtext in Homeric writing? Yes! I agree with that! But a new translation is not going to give you modern YA mlm vibes I'm sorry it's not magically going to be Heartstopper and that is actually a good thing regardless of what you are so desperately searching for! Historical texts like those which Wilson translates have much to offer historical and literary research which is amazing! It does not have to be explicitly perfectly queer for you to enjoy it or benefit from it I promise you.
And if you are reading this going 'surely nobody thinks that' unfortunately my tiktok over the last few days has shown me otherwise!!! I would post this on tiktok itself but god help us all if I did.
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Feels Like Home [02]
Summary: When an unexpected three-week break between Monza and Singapore finds Daniel back on his farm in Perth he’s desperate to use this time to clear his mind, figure out his future in Formula One, and find his way back. He didn’t expect a new neighbour, a sassy two-year old, and three alpacas would make him realise that sometimes, what you’re looking for is right in front of you.
Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x reader (unnamed OFC)
Warnings: Language
Word count: 4.3k
AN: So... The idea was to post a new chapter every week but fuck it. It’s race week, bb’s and all the Daniel content is making me feels all sorts of things so here we are. Hope you like it ♥
Masterlist
It’s after his meeting with Blake and Michael, where they decided to decline the offers Alpine and Haas have made and Blake said he'd try to see if they can schedule another meeting with Red Bull in Singapore, that Daniel finds himself wandering around the house a little restless. He’s supposed to look at race data, promised his engineer he would before their online meeting tonight, the time difference between here and the UK meaning the meetings are always either shit early in the morning or late at night, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to concentrate enough to take notes. Plus, he’s finished outside of the points the last four races so is there really anything else to say except that they need to improve and up their game?
He decides he’ll look at the data later and instead grabs his car keys from the kitchen island, hoping that maybe a visit to Oscar will help clear his mind. There’s something about the way his elderly neighbour always seems to know exactly what to say, always ready with some solid advice or helping him to put things into perspective, that he’s come to appreciate greatly over the years.
The drive over doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes and when he parks his truck in front of the house he catches himself looking around, looking for her. She doesn’t seem to be outside and so he makes his way to the front porch instead, where Oscar’s dog Homer greets him with an enthusiastic bark. Daniel pets his head carefully, because even though Oscar has told him time and time again Homer is all bark and no bite he’s still cautious around him. When the dog settles down again, Daniel knocks on the door, three short knocks like he always does, before he opens the door and lets himself in, “Oscar?”
“Hi Danny,” Oscar greets him from somewhere inside the house. “I’m in the living room.”
“Of course you are,” Daniel teases, toeing his sneakers off before he walks to where he can hear an old rerun of ‘The Price is Right’ playing in the background. Oscar’s sitting in his favourite chair, his right wrist sporting a cast and a nasty looking cut above his eyebrow and to hide his shock at the sight of the old man Daniel plasters a smile on his face and greets him with an enthusiastic, “Jeepers! What have you gotten yourself into, mate?”
“Took a bit of a tumble,” Oscar shoots back with a grin, holding up his wrist. “Doctor said it was one of the finer looking breaks he’s seen in his career.”
“I bet he did,” Daniel says as he sits down on the couch, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles. “How you holding up?”
“Good, yeah. I mean, the doctor said I have to wait until the cast comes off before I can start physical therapy and even then it can take a few months before I have full use of my hand again. And don't get me started on the hip replacement-”
Daniel chuckles, knowing exactly what it is Oscar is getting at, “Going batshit crazy already, huh?”
“Like you have no idea,” his neighbour agrees with a grin. “I mean, it’s great to have the girls here, you know, to help out and keep the farm going but if I have to watch Larry Emdur-” Oscar nods towards the TV, “-stumble over his words every day for the next six weeks, I might throw myself off a cliff.”
“There must be something else you can watch?”
“It’s this or Neighbours, Danny, and you know how I feel about Karl Kennedy.” Oscar lets out a dramatic sigh, “Nah, I’ll just have to take it, mate. It’s what you get when you’re an old cunt like me.”
“Oi,” Daniel sits up and throws Oscar a warning look, “you’re not that old.”
“I’m seventy-eight,” Oscar counters with a grin, “and I ain’t getting any younger. I just hope it won’t be too hard for-”
A cry from upstairs interrupts him and Oscar immediately reaches for his phone, smiling at Daniel apologetically. When the person on the other end picks up his message is short, “I think Ellie’s awake, sweetheart.” He stays silent for a second before he nods, “Yep. Ok. Will do.” When he ends the call he shrugs, “Doctor says I can’t walk up the stairs for a while yet, so-”
“No, yeah, sure,” Daniel says, even though he has no idea what’s going on right now.
***
You’re in the chicken coop when Granddad calls and so it doesn’t take long to get back to the house, where you kick your boots off at the back door and hurry past the kitchen and living room to the stairs, realising too late that he must have a visitor because you can hear him talking to someone. You’ll see who it is later, you figure, your priorities elsewhere for the moment.
When you walk into what is now your bedroom but used to be your grandmother's painting room you are met with two bright eyes looking up at you from over the edge of the cot you’ve set up in the corner and you can’t help but smile at the way your daughter's hair is sticking up in every direction, “Hey bub.”
She drops her stuffed Koala and stretches her arms up at you. When you lift her up from her bed she lets out a content sigh, “Momma.”
Carrying her to the changing table on one arm you pat her hair down with your free hand, “Looks like you had a good nap, huh bub?”
Ellie nods and claps her hands together when you lay her down so you can change her nappy, whispering a quiet, “Pop-Pop.”
“Yeah, we’ll go see Pop-Pop in a second, sweetheart,” you tell her as your fingers make quick work of her diaper. “Let’s get you dressed first though.”
With a clean diaper, her favourite pink sweater and a pair of dungarees that your Granddad gifted Ellie for her second birthday, together with her very own pair of Blundstones, you carry Ellie downstairs and to the living room where- “Daniel. Hi.”
Something passes over his face for just a second or so before he flashes you a big smile, “Hi. It’s good to see you again.”
You want to tell him likewise, really you do, but you think you know the look he so carefully tried to hide because it’s the look every man gives you when they find out you have a daughter, and so you’re cautiously polite, “Nice of you to come visit Granddad.”
"I always keep good on my promises," Daniel says, a sincerity to his voice that makes you relax a little. He nods to Ellie, who's eyeing him suspiciously, no doubt having picked up on your mood, "And who's this lovely lady?"
"This is my great granddaughter, Elisabeth," your granddad offers with a kind smile. "We call her Ellie."
Daniel waits until you've put Ellie in your granddad's lap, whispering a quiet, "Gentle," when you let go of her to remind her Pop-Pop is still injured, before he holds out his hand to your daughter, "Hi Ellie, I'm Daniel."
Ellie studies his face, her little eyebrows knitted together as she tries to decide whether or not she likes him, before she pats his wrist, "Danny."
Daniel lets out a quiet laugh and if you didn't know any better you'd think he sounds relieved to get her approval and maybe, just maybe, you've been too rash in your judgement of him. He scoots forward then and tugs on the pant leg of Ellie's dungarees, "I like your pants, Miss Ellie. Very stylish."
You see Ellie spot the rose tattoo on his hand, her eyes widening in awe as she reaches out and traces her finger over the lines, whispering a quiet, "Flower."
"That's right," Daniel agrees with a nod and a proud grin. "It's a rose."
"Rose," Ellie repeats back to him, looking extremely pleased with herself and you can't help but smile.
"I'm going to make Ellie her bottle," you say then, knowing your girl will get grumpy real quick if you don't get on with it. "Granddad, a cup of tea for you?" Your granddad nods and so you look at Daniel, "Daniel? Tea? Coffee?" Then, with a cheeky smile, "A beer?"
He laughs and shakes his head, "Coffee's fine, thank you."
"Coming right up," you tell them as you turn around and head to the kitchen. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the kitchen window as you're filling up the kettle and curse quietly when you see how bewildered you look and is that a leaf stuck in your hair? Great. It takes a few tries but then you finally get it out, letting your fingers run through your hair then in a futile attempt to make yourself look somewhat presentable.
Once the kettle is on and the coffee maker is running, you warm up some milk for Ellie and rummage around the fridge to see if there's any Lamingtons left over from the batch you made earlier this week. You come up empty on your first try and so you open the door of the fridge even wider and stick your head in, sure that the container must be in there somewhere.
A chuckle and a, "Are you trying to get to Narnia, or-" scare the shit out of you and you hit your head on the top shelf as you try to stand up, cursing quietly as you pull out, "Ow. Fuck."
"Oh shit," Daniel holds out his hands to you, eyes wide, "are you ok?"
You pull a face as you rub the top of your head, a little taken aback by how worried and guilty he looks, "I'm fine. I just didn't hear you come in."
"Yeah, shit, sorry," he says and runs a hand through his hair, letting it rest at the base of his neck. "I just wanted to see if you needed any help?"
"Unlike everything else around here, I think I've got this." You're not sure why you said that, don't even realise you did until you see his eyebrows knit together, but it's too late to take it back and so you give him an apologetic smile, "Sorry. That came out- I didn't-" You wave your hand around, hoping he won't push anything, "It's fine."
He doesn't say anything but instead pulls out a kitchen chair and points at it, waiting until you've sat down before he gives you a kind smile, "You just sit there, I got this."
You watch him as he walks around the kitchen with confidence, pulling three mugs from the cabinet and finding everything else he needs with ease and it's then you realise he must have been coming over more than you thought. The microwave beeps then but he seems unsure what to do with the now warm milk and looks at you with his eyebrows raised, and so you point towards the cabinet over the sink, "The bottles are in there. Once you've filled the bottle,you should test-"
"Test it on the inside of my wrist to see if it's not too warm." Daniel laughs at the surprised look you must give him and explains, "My sister has two kids."
"Gotcha," you reply with a smile. "Must be fun to have an uncle who's a world famous racecar driver."
“I hope so,” Daniel says with a sad smile. “I’m gone most of the year so I’ve missed quite a lot already but they seem to enjoy coming to the races every now and then-”
“We do what we can,” you offer with a shrug. “Right?”
He nods but then throws you a look that you’re not sure how to read, “We sure do.”
***
After about an hour or so Oscar lets out a loud yawn and Daniel takes it as his cue to leave, knowing his neighbour doesn’t let anything or anyone come between him and his afternoon naps. Daniel says goodbye to Ellie by teaching her how to fistbump and then tells Oscar he’ll come around again tomorrow, just for a chat and to save him from having to watch ‘The Price is Right’ all afternoon. When he turns towards her he finds her smiling at him with a kind smile and so he returns it, “See you tomorrow, neighbour.”
She nods in reply and then tells Ellie they’re going outside for a bit so Granddad can take his nap and they can finish feeding the chickens and clean out the shed.
He’s not sure why he hasn’t noticed it before, maybe it’s the way the light falls on her face, but she looks absolutely exhausted. He doesn’t want to hoover, doesn’t want to make her feel bad about noticing it and so he doesn’t say anything but by the time he gets into his car he thinks he knows a way he might be able to help.
The first person he calls is Michael, “Hi mate.”
“Mikey, hey,” Daniel greets his best friend as he drives onto the main road. “Listen, you know my neighbour Oscar, right?” He waits until Michael hums in reply before he continues, “Well, he fell down a couple of days ago, broke his hip and wrist, and so he needs some help. I figured maybe you could hook him up with some prepped meals? Make sure at least he’s eating right, you know?”
“Of course,” Michael agrees easily enough. “Anything he doesn’t like?”
“I don’t think so but- Could you have them make two-person portions?” Daniel isn’t sure why he says what he says next, isn’t sure why he doesn’t just tell Michael about her. Maybe it’s because he wants to keep her to himself a little longer even though she definitely isn't his to keep. Still, he adds, “Oscar’s a big eater.”
Michael chuckles, “Will do, mate. Do you want me to ask if they can deliver it to-”
“Nah, I can pick it up. Just let me know when it’s ready, ok?”
“Yep.”
“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Daniel means it when he says, “Thanks, mate.”
“No worries.”
The next call he makes is to Blake, who sounds a little rushed when he answers on the third ring, “Dan, can I call you back in like five minutes? I’m in the checkout at Woolies.”
“Yep, no worries.”
He gets the call right as he turns onto his driveway and as always, Blake cuts right to the chase, “Alright, what’s going on, mate? What do you need?”
Daniel laughs, “Can’t I just call you to hear how my best mate’s doing?”
Blake doesn’t say anything and Daniel’s sure he can feel Blake’s eye roll from all the way on the other end of the line.
“Ok, fine,” Daniel says with a grin. “Is there any way we can clear my schedule from like six to nine until we leave for Singapore?”
“I don’t think-” Blake starts but then seems to change his mind. “Why?”
“I-” Daniel hesitates, not sure why he just doesn’t tell Blake about her. In the end he tells him what he told Michael, “You know Oscar from next door?”
“Yeah-”
“Well, he fell down a few days ago, broke his hip and his wrist, so- He needs some help around the house, so I got Michael organising some prepped meals for him and I figured I might as well be there to help out a bit, you know?”
It stays quiet for a second too long and Daniel knows Blake doesn’t quite believe him and is about ready to tell him the entire story but then he hears Blake sigh and can just imagine the way he pushes his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Fine. Just for the record, I know you’re not telling me everything here, Dan but- I trust you. So please, don’t fuck it up. I don’t want to have to explain to Zak why you’ve broken a leg dirt biking or something.”
“I won’t.”
“Ok. Give me an hour and I’ll send you your new schedule, ok?” Blake clears his throat, “We’re still keeping the morning sessions with Michael, right?”
His morning workouts run from nine until twelve so as far as Daniel’s concerned that’s fine as is, “Yep.”
“Alright, I’ll come up with something to tell the team and I’ll let you know, ok?”
“Thanks, mate.” Then, because it’s true, “I owe you one.”
Blake chuckles, “Add it to the list, mate.”
***
Ever since you got here there’s been a certain monotony to your days, where you do chores around the house in the morning, so you can keep an eye on Ellie at the same time, and then move outside after lunch, once you’ve put Ellie down for her nap. Granddad calls you whenever she wakes up, which usually is right in time for afternoon tea, and you’ve come to take her outside with you so she can play for a bit and you can do some smaller chores. After you’ve made dinner Ellie goes to bed, which frees you up to go check on the Alpacas before you’re back in the house for the dishes and whatever else needs to be done.
Saturdays are no exception and so here you are, ready to head outside with Ellie.
“Out,” Ellie says, clapping her hands in excitement. “Out, out, out.”
“Yep, let me just-” you say as you try to wriggle her foot into her rainboot, “-get these on, bub. And then we’re ready to go.” Once both feet are in you hold out your hand for her to take and lead her outside, Homer following you without question. The dog’s been retired from his working duties when your granddad sold the fifty or so cows he still had a few years ago, but he still accompanies whoever’s working on the farm whenever he feels like it.
A quick glance at the sky tells you there’s rain clouds building in the distance but you hope it will stay dry until after dinner, or at least until you’ve finished your work in the vegetable garden.
You give Ellie her own tiny spade and tell her to have at it while you set out to dig some holes for the potato plants you’ve picked up at the agrishop earlier this week.
You’re almost finished when you hear a car pulling up to the house and when you look up from where you were hunched over, trying to keep Ellie from eating yet another handful of dirt, stretching your back as you stand up straight, you’re a little surprised to see it’s Daniel. When he told you yesterday he’d come by again today you didn’t actually expect him to do so but-
“Danny!” Ellie exclaims when she spots him, pushing herself up from the ground and wobbling over to the fence.
You see Daniel’s smile grow wider when he sees her and he quickly makes his way over, holding out his fist to her once he reaches the fence, laughing then when she bumps hers against his. “Hello Miss Ellie. How are you today?”
“Tatoes!” Ellie says, pointing at the ground with a proud smile.
“We’ve planted potatoes,” you explain, using the back of your wrist to wipe the hair from your face, your hands still covered in dirt. “Well, I did,” you add and laugh when you nod at Ellie, “this little troublemaker was more interested in eating dirt.”
Daniel chuckles and winks at Ellie, “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
Ellie holds out her arms to him then and Daniel looks at you, only picking her up after you’ve nodded to let him know it’s ok.
“Granddad should be done with his nap,” you tell Daniel as you pick up the spade again. “So if you want to head inside-”
“Oh no, that’s ok,” Daniel says and opens the gate that leads into the garden, Ellie resting on his hip. “We can hang out here for a while, huh? Wait until momma’s finished?”
Ellie pats his cheek with one of her dirty hands, leaving a trace of mud just above his beard, whispering a quiet, “Danny.”
“Aw,” Daniel coos, a warm smile spreading across his face. He looks at you then, “So I uh- I wanted to run something by you.”
“Ok,” you draw out, not sure what he’s getting at.
“I’ve known Oscar for a long time, right? And well, he’s always helped me out whenever I needed help over at the farm so I wanted to return the favour.” He waits until you’ve stand up before he continues, “I talked to Michael, he’s my personal trainer and he does all my meal prep and-” he waves his free hand around, “Anyway, he knows someone in Perth who can help out with that and I went there today and picked up some prepped meals for you guys. They’ll last you until next Sunday and I can still pick up the next batch because I don’t leave for Singapore until next Tuesday a week from now anyway, but this way you won’t have to worry about dinner so much. You just pop them in the microwave and you have a healthy, balanced meal for you and old Oscar.”
Your first instinct is to tell him that it’s fine, that it isn’t really necessary, but honestly, not having to worry about dinner would save you so much time and so you tell him, “Thank you.”
“And-” he puts Ellie down then and runs a hand through his hair, almost as if he’s a bit unsure of himself, “-I’ve cleared my schedule in the evenings so if you want I could help you out for a bit after dinner. I know you have the alpacas to take care of and-”
You’re at a loss for words for a moment, a warm feeling spreading somewhere deep inside of you at the kindness he’s showing. If you’re honest, really honest, it’s all been a bit much and while you didn’t necessarily want to ask anyone for help, not even sure who you could ask, Daniel offering to help out for a few hours every day would make all the difference.
He must take your silence for something else because he quickly adds, “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, if it’s the dishes, or just sitting with Oscar for a bit, or-”
“Daniel,” you say, putting your hand on his arm to let him know it’s ok. “Thank you. That’s really kind of you.”
He shrugs, “It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s more than you have to,” you reply with a smile. “I really appreciate it.”
***
“Ok, so this is Barbra,” she says as she pets one of the lighter-coloured alpacas, “but we call her ‘Babs’.”
They’re out in Eagle’s Nest, the paddock bordering his dirt bike track, and she’s taken it upon herself to introduce him to the three alpacas that are huddled together near the feeder. She nods, encouraging him to pet the animal but he’s- Hesitant. Babs looks very innocent, all long eyelashes and fluffy hair but he’s sure a well-aimed kick could take him out in seconds and so he prefers to keep his distance.
She laughs and grabs his wrist, “Come on, you drive fast cars for a living, Ricciardo. Don’t tell me you’re scared of an Alpaca.”
“I’m not scared but there ain’t nothing wrong with being cautious,” he shoots back but his voice is a little too high-pitched to make it sound convincing. He flinches when she guides his hand closer to Babs but when she makes him touch her fur and he feels how soft the wool is he relaxes a little.
She laughs and lets go of his wrist, “See? That isn’t so bad, is it?”
“Hmm,” he agrees half-heartedly, not wanting to spook the animal. “It’s ok.”
“It’s Betsy you gotta look out for anyway,” she says with a nod towards a dark-brown alpaca, a mischievous smile tugging on her lips. “She tends to bite when you get too close.”
“Good to know,” he says, still keeping his voice low, still stroking Babs’ back. “And who’s that?”
She holds her hand out to a white alpaca, the animal immediately going in for a head scratch, “This is Blanche. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She turns to him then and whispers, “She ain’t the brightest of the bunch, most of the time the light’s on but there’s nobody home, if you know what I mean, but we love her just the same.”
He laughs, “Gotcha.”
“Ok, so,” she opens the gate and allows him to step inside before she closes it again, telling Homer, who has come along in the back of her ute, to stay. “We’ve got their feeder here but I keep a bucket of grains in the back of my ute to keep the mice out and once every two days or so I bring them a fresh bail of hay.” She motions towards the shed a little bit further down, “They can seek shelter there at night and tend to huddle up whenever it rains, so I make sure to clean it out every day so it’s a nice place for them to be.”
He nods, trying to pay attention but he’s too distracted by the way she keeps touching his arm whenever she shows him something and finds himself wishing she wouldn’t let go. When she’s done with her tour of the alpaca paddock she looks at him expectantly and he can’t help but smile back at her.
She wiggles her eyebrows at him, “You sure you still want to help out?”
Daniel has never been more certain of anything in his life, “Yes ma’am.”
#Daniel Ricciardo#F1 Fanfic#Daniel Ricciardo x reader#F1 Imagine#DR3#Harley Sunday x Daniel Ricciardo#Feels Like Home
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Go home, Hobie Brown pt. 2
Hobie Brown x reader
Part 1:
Notes: Alt and aro ace reader (although that’s less relevant here), fluff-ish, reader remains GN but might have a writing bias towards fem, Hobie does some illegal shit, Hobie and reader are adults, use of (y/n), no phonetic spelling of Hobie’s accent, brit written by a European sue me, he’s probably a bit OOC in this one,
“Why does reader work at a factory and not, say, a pub? That’s a little weird isn’t it?” it’s bc I work at a factory and this is once again ✨wish fulfillment✨
So this initially was something else, but I realized that it was similar in structure to my previous work and that if I reworked it a little bit, it would be a nice addition to that. Is this a series now? I fucking hope not, I have a bad track record finishing those. Loosely connected two shot for now. I might come back tonight to tweak some stuff, but I think it is in a readable state lol
Pls dont repost anywhere thx ✨️
You tried your best to ignore him. An half hearted attempt to deprive him of the reaction he wanted while you continued to flatten out your stack of cardboard boxes, throwing them into the container next to you. Hobie was standing right in front of you, not having said anything to you since he arrived. He stood far enough away from you for it to appear casual and incidental, but close enough for him to still tower over you.
Finally, his patience caved. “…hey,” he said.
“Hey, Hobie,” your tone was cool. You didn't feel as embarrassed now that there were no people around, right outside of the small factory you worked at.
“What are you doing?”
You peered up at him with a smirk on your face. “I need to throw out these boxes. You know, for my job? My job that I have at this factory that we’re currently at. That you jumped a fence over to get to just now.” You gestured towards the fence right in front of you.
“Ey no way,” Hobie laughed as if he hadn't known all along. “You think they got cameras?”
You shrugged, all the while continuing your work. “We have a front door. You could’ve just talked to the lady at the front desk. She might have let you through, you know?”
“Nah, didn't like the look of her.”
"She probably wouldn't have liked the look of you either to be fair," you laughed. Technically, she'd be right, Hobie was trespassing. But she was a sour tart anyways, so you understood Hobie’s comment.
"What's wrong with those boxes anyways?" He pointed. "They look brand new."
You had noticed that he had been antsy about that. He probably didn't like you throwing out boxes that were still more than usable. It wasn’t something you agreed with either, but it wasn’t up to you.
"Dunno." You answered. "I don't think theres anything wrong with them perse. They probably prepared more than they needed."
"That's IT?! What a bloody waste," He gave the container a kick after his outburst. "Why are you contributing to this,"
"Boss's orders" you gave him a cheeky salute.
"I'm disappointed in you," You choked back a laugh.
"I knew you would be. I'm part of the machine, Hobart," You stuck out your hands and did a mock robot walk. “they’re coming to get you, Hobart-”
Hobie pushed your arms back to your sides. His hands lingered there longer than your heart could handle "That stupid uniform too... They're stripping you of all the important bits."
"Well.” You said, hoping to go back to a lighter tone. “If you know of an anarchist version of this part-time job where I can come and go when I want, where I barely have to speak to people and where I make this much money, doing the workload equivalent of Homer Simpsons job, then let me know." It was true, this was the easiest part time you've ever had. "If you look at it like that, I'm practically stealing from the boss, don't you think?"
"I know of a job like that." He said, playing along. "It's called 'dating me'. heard It's got real good benefits too. "
"Ohhh does that include the part that I dont have to talk to my boss?" Hobie’s big dumb smirk dropped to an amused smile.
"No, I'd prefer if you kept doing that to be honest."
You couldn't hold it in and you awkwardly laughed alongside him.
"Can I have them?" He asked out of the blue.
"Pardon?"
"The boxes.”
"What do you need cardboard boxes for?" You put the box you had picked up back on the pile. "Don't become a hoarder, Hobie, I'll stop visiting you guys."
"Not me," he picked up one of the boxes to inspect. "For Gwendy. These are the exact size she uses to ship her clothes in when she sells them online."
You looked at him with narrowed eyes. If he took the few remaining boxes, you could finish up and go back inside, which was tempting.
Before you could answer him, the door to the building opened.
"Hey (y/n)," your manager said. "I came to check on you. Who's this..?" She frowned at Hobie, who was obviously not supposed to be there. Hobie looked troubled, even though he liked testing the boundaries he didn't want to get you fired over something like this. Which is honestly something he should have thought of before coming over, but what can you do.
"Actually," you said in the most somber tone you could muster. You placed your hand on Hobie’s arm in a comforting gesture. "Hobie just told me his grandma passed away this morning." You felt him stiffen up, his emotions shifting from confused to amused to acting out sadness in a split second.
Hobie, of course, didn't have a grandma in his life.
"Oh..." your manager said, you knew how empathetic she was. "I'm so sorry to hear that."
“I’m sorry ma’m.. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but,“ He let out a very fake sob and you suppressed the desire to roll your eyes. “I just know how close (y/n) was to my nan... I’ll be going now...“
Before he went though, he turned around and grabbed an entire armful of cardboard boxes. Leaving your manager stunned. Hobie walked towards the fence gate.
“You perhaps got a key for this gate? Ah, you do? Thank you I’ll be leaving now, Cheers.“
Your manager looked at you when he left. “Ah well. Nan would have hated for those boxes to go to waste.”
---------
Alright wow, I'm being so productive with fics at the moment this is kind of crazy.
I hope he isn't TOO out of character? I think it's really hard to get his speech pattern right. And then I don't just mean his accent, but how that interacts with his cheeky and confident way of talking. But my biggest pet peeves in fics of his at the moment are a) phonetic spelling of his accent and b) people who write fake and cringey British slang. (He doesn't constantly speak in cockney rhyme in the movie ppl lol) Bonus point if both are true, haha... I've lived in England, but honestly, getting it right is difficult, and I still feel like I'm having him say american phrases 😭
#hobie brown#spider punk#spiderverse#hobie brown x y/n#hobie brown x you#hobie brown x reader#spiderpunk x reader
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CS Lewis says:
The actual operation of the Homeric diction is remarkable. The unchanging recurrence of his wine-dark sea, his rosy fingered dawn, his ships launched into the holy brine, his Poseidon shaker ofearth, produce an effect which modern poetry, except where it has learned from Homer himself, cannot attain.
I semi-like reading Homer for a variety of reasons but I've always felt put off by claims that these authors were really good, so good that they account for the success of future writers who emulated them. Probabilistically that makes no sense. The human population has grown so much, and so has the share of people who are literate, and the bank of thought they stand on. Aristotle is probably my favorite of the really old writers I've sampled – he feels clean and affable and smart – but it would be very surprising if I considered him remarkable for quality, and indeed he isn't.
One reason I think people say this is that they are mixing up gratitude with quality. Writers have gotten better and better over the years because of what came before, so they are naturally indebted to tradition. But it seems to me that the real reason is that socially agreeing that the olds were also the greats enables the class of people who do intellectuality as leisure and passion to play social games and word games. Let's look at how CS Lewis continues this:
...except where it has learned from Homer himself, cannot attain. They emphasize the unchanging human environment. They express a feeling very profound and very frequent in real life, but else where ill represented in literature. What is really in our minds when we first catch sight of the sea after a long absence, or look up, as watchers in a sickroom or as sentries, to see yet another daybreak ? Many things, no doubt-all manner of hopes and fears, pain or pleasure, and the beauty or grimness of that particular sea and that particular dawn. Yes; but under all these, like a base so deep as to be scarcely audible, there is something which we might very lamely express by muttering 'same old sea' or 'same old morning'. The permanence, the indifference, the heartrending or consoling fact that whether we laugh or weep the world is what it is, always enters into our experience and plays no small part in that pressure of reality which is one of the differences between life and imagined life.
This is not a good argument. It's a way you can see things. You could apply it to anything, and so it proves too much. It's a way CS Lewis feels, or has chosen to feel, about Homer, not a way in which Homer has Contributed To Literature.
Yet I found his argument so beautiful to read. I kind of want to believe it! And to write something this beautiful about Homer, CS Lewis and his audience had to buy that there was always more depth to Homer worth diving for. Something must be extractable that has not been noticed for thousands and thousands of years... the sheer gravity of the preexisting dialogue draws one to the work, and once drawn, one must believe there is more there.
And as long as people crave these beautiful, subtle, old games of analysis, they will not let what is very old be anything other than great.
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This is fascinating! By Stefan Hager (FB)
“We currently have 5,800 plus Greek New Testaments manuscripts, 10,000 plus Latin manuscripts, and 9,300 plus manuscripts in various languages). if we were to stack the manuscripts we have found today it would reach more than a mile high). Beating all other historical records of the ancient world. for example, no one doubts the historical person “Homer” as we have 1.800 plus manuscripts of his life, yet we have 25,000 plus manuscripts of the life of Jesus, and that doesn’t include secular sources). And considering that the earliest copies of the New Testament are written within 25 years after the death of Jesus, but the earliest copies of Homers works are written 400 years after the death of Homer. Jesus is the gold standard for historians. If we’re going to doubt Jesus. We might as well doubt all ancient history.
Comparing these manuscripts we find that the teaching, stories, doctrines of the bible are all surprisingly the same. reading a bible in English vs reading a bible in Russian. It may be worded differently but you get the same story/biblical doctrine).
Tho no one manuscript is perfect. Through the centuries, minor differences arose in the various copies of the Scriptures. The vast majority of these differences are simple spelling variants, inverted words (one manuscript says “Christ Jesus” while another says “Jesus Christ” or different ways people have spelled names). or an easily identified missing word. In short, over 99 percent of the biblical text is not questioned. Of the less than 1 percent of the text that is in question, no doctrinal teaching or command is jeopardized. In other words, the copies of the Bible we have today are pure. The Bible has not been corrupted, altered, edited, revised, or tampered with.
“The early books of the bible” were so vastly copied and wide spread that if one group in Africa wanted to change any part, believers in Israel, Rome, Alexandria would have easily identified the change to the wide spread text/message.
This is also evidenced by the Dead Sea scrolls (large portions of Old Testament) which were found in 1947. These scrolls are dated 200BC. So Jesus would have those as scripture during his earthly time, and the content of those scrolls match. If we look at any bible in any chapter and we look at the Hebrew and the same chapter it’s going to read the same way we have today, now it is true there are variations in reading/wording or translation. Every book prior to the printing press has variations. The Quran has variations, The point is, variations don’t give you a different text, a different theology, a different meaning.
Here’s a scaled down example. using textual criticism and cross checking manuscripts. We can pretty much reconstruct what the original said. How does this work?.
Consider the following example. Suppose we have four different manuscripts that have different errors in the same verse, such as Philippians 4:13:
1.I can do all t#ings through Christ
2.I can do all th#ngs through Christ
3.I can do all thi#gs through Christ
4.I can do all thin#s through Christ
Is there any mystery of what the original said?. None whatsoever. By comparing and cross checking manuscripts. the original can be reconstructed with great accuracy and the reconstruction of the New Testament is easier than this, because there are far fewer errors in the actual New Testament manuscripts than there are represented by this example. Plus a vast amount of material to work with.
Any unbiased document scholar will agree that the Bible has been remarkably well-preserved over the centuries. Even many hardened skeptics and critics of the Bible admit that the Bible has been transmitted over the centuries far more accurately than any other ancient document.
There is absolutely no evidence that the Bible has been revised, edited, or tampered with in any systematic manner. No one group has ever had control over the biblical text. The sheer volume of biblical manuscripts makes it simple to recognize any attempt to distort God’s Word. There is no major doctrine of the Bible that is put in doubt as a result of the inconsequential differences among the manuscripts.
Ancient scribes often copied books letter by letter (one by one). not sentence by sentence. It was a long process but they assured Accuracy. And they would count the letters of the copies and count the letters of the original. if the original had 500 letters and the copy had 497 letters, they would destroy the copy and restart.”
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Atalanta #4 (Atalanta Outwrestles Peleus)
At the funeral games for King Pelius, Atalanta wrestles the Argonaut, Peleus, winning the match through strength and technique.
Looking to Homer and the Iliad and the funeral games for Patroclus, we can get a overview of the ancient greek funeral games. The body of the fallen was placed upon a funeral pyre, offerings or sacrifices are made, and the pyre burnes. In the funeral games was an opportunity for Greek men to compete and show their Arete, or excellence, in a given skill. Events like; Chariot races, boxing, wrestling, running, sword fighting, shotputting, archery, and javelin throwing. The winners of the contests could hope to be awarded the glorious olive wreath crown; or other precious objects like tripods or horses. In fact these funerary competitive games are seen as the ancient roots of the Olympic games. Although it was Hercules who created the first Olympic games to honor his father, Zeus.
Let’s take a look at Atalanta’s wrestling partner; Peleus, who plays an important role in Greek myth. As one of the heroes of the Argonautica, he later becomes a king of Phthia (in Thessaly) and is most famous for his marriage to the sea nymph Thetis. Zeus learned the prophecy that through his coupling with Thetis, her offspring would overthrow the Olympians, so he gave Thetis to a mortal; King Peleus. Chiron the centaur gave King Peleus the tip that he should ambush and hold tight to Thetis, as she transformed between forms. After succeeding to capture her, she agrees to marry, and the gods attend the wedding ceremony. This is the banquet where Eris, goddess of discord, sneaks in the golden apple inscribed with “for the farest,” setting off an argument between Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite. When Paris, prince of troy is Aphrodite promising Helen to Paris, setting off the Trojan war.
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#greekmythology#greekgods#pjo#mythology#classics#classicscommunity#myths#ancientgreece#argonauts#ovid#homer
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Odyssey - an opinion on Odysseus
Tw: reference to sexual assault, coercision, rape in abstract terms as themes.
Currently reading the Odyssey for the first time and there are 2 interpretations it feels like you can make with Odysseus and his intereactions with characters like Calypso.
He's an unloyal twat who willingly sleeps with everyone woman he can (I feel like this seems to be the most popular female oriented take from what I know of a lot of modern retellings)
That actually, Odysseus has very little choice. The women he sleeps with are goddesses who entrap him in someway and the reality is that his one consistent goal is to get back to Penelope, the clever wife he loves. In effect Odysseus pretty much is being coerced and forced into these sexual relationships. Take Calypso for example, he can't kill her, can't leave, can't persuade her to let him go. He spends the years he's there crying, sobbing, desperate to leave but lays in her bed at night when she asks him to. This to me doesn't seem like a man who wants to be doing that, wants to be betraying his wife, but instead a man who has little choice. Admittedly as well, it's made clear that the goddesses (Calypso and Circe) have a sort of magic when it comes to coercing and getting people to do what they want and it's made clear that Calypso's goal is to have Odysseus stay as her husband forever. The moment he has a chance to leave, after Hermes forces Calypso's hand, he does so, refusing to stay and turning down immortality and by all accounts one of the most beautiful creatures on the planet. There are multiple women, mortal and immortal, in the books who are described as desiring Odysseus and as extremely beautiful. The immortal he sleeps with, but the mortal he does not despite the opportunities afforded him. This to me suggests he only sleeps with the immortal ones because he has very little real choice, who is he to go against a goddess? I personally believe that if he had a real choice, he would have been celibate for those 20 years until he returned home.
I think it's really easy to judge Odysseus at face value, that he's a cheat and liar and that he didn't have to do these things. But to me, my personal interpretation (which is what it is, you can have a different one and that's fine!) is that this man, this highly intelligent man, adores his wife, wants to be back home, but has very little choice. That at best he sleeps with these goddesses knowing that it will enable his survival and at worst he's literally forced through the coercive nature that is a goddess and her powers. It doesn't seem to me, especially with Calypso, that he wants to be there, that he really wants her or cares for her or desires her, it seems like a motion, something he has to do because he's forced to. This man spends his entire time crying and I suspect if he could have he would have killed her, but who can kill a goddess? A daughter of Atlas? Certainly not him.
It strikes me as well, that if he really were that much of a rake, then the mortal women he comes across who are described as beautiful and desiring him, he would also sleep with or even marry and stay with. But he doesn't.
It may be an unpopular interpretation, but I actually really like Odysseus and I personally believe he has little choice in these flawed actions and that in reality he's a victim, I don't believe Homer puts it forth as some sort of romantic ideal or the hero being rewarded.
Obviously, you don't have to agree. You can have your own opinion and that's fine.
#That being said I've only just got past Circe so maybe there's other parts of the story I haven't gotten to yet#but I'm a penelope/odysseus stan and I 'm tempted to rewrite the odyssey with odysseus very clearly a victim#it doesn't feel like he's this rake that people put him as in my opinion#the odyssey#odysseus#odysseus/penelope
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