#Ha-roo

[andypantsx3]

did not get as much writing done as i wanted during my first day to myself in 4 weeks (😭) but roo did help me do yoga for the first time in forever (standing under me and putting her mouth in my mouth) read half a book (i have not read anything in 4 weeks straight) and i made the BEST steak and asparagus of my life, with a little lemon parm arugula salad on the side. i cook red meat like once a year so this was huge.

[enthyrea]

shhhhhhh…. 😴

phoenix sent this picture to the dagger groupchat captioned “I told you so.”

(everyone now owes her fifty dollars.)

[adobe-outdesign]

TNT: alright here's our new plot characters and an exciting story to go with them! the fans are going to love these guys

The fans, ignoring the main characters entirely: we need to start shipping King Roo and Lord Darigan Immediately

[ghosts-of-love]

nothing quite like visiting family to make you feel 10× more autistic than usual

[tarteggs]

old doodle of The Roo i found in my class notes that i decided to clean up :]

[teddybearty]

It’s Party Time!! Moar OCs!!! 🎉🎉🎉

[kangaracha]

CATSKIN for @feelbokkie

prompt felix + twisted fairytale (catskin)

TW for blood, minor character death, mentions of sexual assault, medieval type violence

word count 4444

---

I.

When first you meet, it is like two stars colliding - like the sun and the moon dancing around each other in the sky, and love at first sight is a dream for foolish, insipid children and you know that to be true, but...

Maybe in this moment, you forget. Maybe you see his face, warm against the cold ice of the cape that falls over his shoulder, or maybe you watch the soft curve of his mouth as he laughs at something his brother says, standing so subtly apart from the crowd that no one notices they are there. Maybe your eyes meet across the room, sun-warmed brown to striking blue, and time stills and the dance stops and your heart thinks that here and now, nothing else could matter but the taste of his name on your tongue and knowing what his hand would feel like in yours.

But this isn't real. The ballroom is crowded, and he is a familiar face you have never met, and you are a stranger with the moon draped over your shoulders for the night. The band strikes up a dance, a lively rhythm that swings fast and slow, and you are swept into the rush of the current, your feet moving in a pattern that they know from heart. Your hands are still stained with coal; you take every suitor's hand palm-down, hiding the black stains that won't quite scrub from already-dark skin, and you waltz without meaning until pale, slender fingers take yours and hold them tight, tugging you from the dance before you can be passed on to the next partner in line.

"Wha-" you begin, and then you look up into the eyes you've dreamed of for days and months and years and forget what you were going to say at all.

"Sorry," he says, and drops your hand with all the haste you'd expect someone like him to once he looked close enough to see the lie shivering beneath your skin. "I just wanted to know your name, before I lost you in the crowd."

Love at first sight is a story mothers tell to put their children to sleep at night, and you have lost all your senses because in that moment, your mouth opens as if to answer him.

"There you are," a voice says behind you, too sweet to be any you know; and an arm loops through yours, and here is Hyunjin suddenly, jewels dripping from his brow and a fire burning in the back of his eye where only you know what it is for. "It's so like you to wander off. Come on; our friends are looking for us."

"Before you go-" says the mouth you'd seen laughing from across the hall, the prince it belongs to reaching out a hand - but you are already gone sliding away through the crowd that fills his ballroom from wall to wall with more dazzling finery than you've ever seen in your life.

"That was close," Hyunjin breathes in your ear, and there is the voice that you recognise, liquid fire and undertones of dark shadow. "You're supposed to avoid him, you know."

"I know," you mutter and allow yourself to be swept away, all thoughts of love and the sun and the electric feeling that had jumped from his hand to yours swept to the side.

II.

The king likes the ballroom to be full and the people to be colourful, and he likes the crowd to be lively.

The wine flows freely for the last day of the summer, the lords and ladies stripped of their cautious humours and careful tongues. Their laughter is raucous as you slip out into the garden, the sun pulled over your shoulders in lengths of fine silk that cut away the cold wind that bites at your exposed skin. Already, the trees have begun to turn and the grass is wet with the season's rain; you stand in the centre of an autumn scene and watch the leaves flutter and fall, the light of the lanterns glittering from your skirts and the swirl of beading across your breast, woven from the finest gold.

"It's you," says the man beneath the tree; and when he steps out into the light, dressed again in pure white, you forget to pretend that you hadn't seen him, or that you'd simply come out here to breathe in air that wasn't stifled by the laughs of a thousand other people. "I was looking for you, you know."

"Were you?" you ask with the curve of a smile, your tongue loosened by the quiet of the cooling night and the seclusion of the garden. "Or could you just not find someone to dance with?"

You'd seen him earlier, standing at the edge of that floor. Gently turning away the hands of countless maidens in gowns that dripped in jewels under the guise of speaking to his brothers, searching the crowd with his eyes at every moment he thought that eyes weren't watching him. The guilty smile that plays on his face says that he knows exactly what you are thinking of; the step that he takes within your reach says that he isn't going to hide it. "Maybe I was waiting for the right person," he says, and then his cheeks turn pink in embarrassment, his eyes sliding momentarily away from yours.

"You'll waste your entire night if you think like that," you tell him lightly, and then you glance over your shoulder at the doors to the ballroom - to give him a moment to himself, you tell yourself, and pretend that it wasn't because you thought you felt the creep of Hyunjin's watchful gaze over the back of your neck. There is no one at the door though, no one watching through the backs that are turned to the glass. Only he can see you here, the sun standing in the middle of the night's darkness.

"I never got to ask your name the last time I saw you," he says; and with a start that jolts up your spine like electricity, you turn back to him. 

"I never got to ask yours either," you say, in lieu of the answer that you cannot give him. Never mind the danger of him recognising you too closely after this night - if he mentioned to Hyunjin the name of a girl he'd met in the garden, if Hyunjin knew what you were doing between the tasks you'd been given...

"Everyone knows mine," he scoffs; not because he thinks so highly of himself, but in the reluctant acceptance of someone who had never known a moment of privacy. "You can't have come to the woodlands knowing so little."

"And what if I didn't?" you question, playing along on this string of a conversation rather than letting him turn it back around to the question he'd really tried to ask. "What if I'd simply come here to enjoy the night, and seen a man across the room that I thought I'd like to know?"

His smile grows wider, his eyes softening. You like the way that smile looks on him. "Then I'd tell you my name is Felix," he tells you. "And I'd probably ask you to dance before we met like this, out here in the garden where no one is looking. And it probably wouldn't be such a scandal if we were seen either."

"That doesn't sound like as much fun though," you say. "Isn't it much more interesting to meet like this, than to have it all planned out?"

"Are you someone that likes trouble?" he asks, head tilted to the side in question; and the words seem cautious, probing, but he draws in closer again anyway, enough that his hand can brush yours in the folds of your dress.

"Maybe I am," you tease, your heart fluttering and jumping around in your chest like a nervous rabbit. "Aren't you?"

"I think I could be," he says, and his hand brushing your chin is followed by his lips brushing yours; and it is only a question, a stepping across boundaries that promises to rescind immediately if you push him away, but love at first sight is a dream and you think maybe, in another life, you might have been a terribly indulgent dreamer.

You kiss him with all the certainty that had driven you to this point, this garden and this night and this man, and his lips are soft and he smiles too much, and his hands are hesitant to wander, but you've already tried hot, heady passion and men who take what they want. Soft is new, and questioning sends a shiver down your spine, and you think this is a better man. 

And then you stop because you remember, but you play it off as the toll of the bell startling you from a daydream. "I have to go," you say, which is true, and then, "I hope you find someone to dance with tonight," which is not.

"Will I see you again?" he asks; and it's notable, you think, that he doesn't reach out of try to stop you. That he accepts on face value that you are telling the truth and that, even though his eyes say they want you to stay, his mouth would be rude to ask.

"Maybe," you say, the word drawn out like honey dripping long and slow from your tongue. "If you have another ball."

He laughs, his eyes squeezing closed with the pain of it. When they open again, you make sure you are gone from his sight.

You're pretty sure you dropped something like your heart there in the courtyard, but you don't dare to go and get it back. Not yet.

III.

You're cutting through fine hallways of tapestry and stone from the garden, your basket filled with vegetables and your face streaked in dirt. You aren't supposed to be here - a scullery maid shhould be in the dark spaces between the walls, scurrying up and down steep and spiralling stairs, but you're late and the cook is a stone-faced woman with a tongue made for lashing, and you hadn't thought-

The prince stops to look at you, confusion furrowing in his brow as he stares at your face. Recognition; except that today you are hiding under the brown of the dirt and the mantle of wild fur, cobbled together from the backs of many animals but none so fine as te ermine that lines his coat. 

Your heart sinks even as it pounds in alarm at the thought of him finding out what you are and where you've come from. It is a disaster if it happens, surely, but at the same time - maybe you'd tricked yourself into thinking that he remembered you the same way you did him. Or maybe he had tricked you, with the way he'd so quietly given you his name in the garden, the earnesty with which he'd nearly asked you to stay.

"Your highness?" Hyunjin asks at his shoulder, dressed all in his own princely regalia, and Felix turns away. And for a moment you hate Hyunjin, as you slip to the side of the hall where your feet should be, out of the way; because how could he be so beautiful, and so detached and so true to his beliefs that he could play the prince, and you are so suited to fur and treachery that you stand here a maid?

"Sorry," Felix says, to Hyunjin and not to you, and pretends to move on. You can see his eyes flick back again as he leaves though, trying one last time to see past the furs and the dirt, to place where he has seen you before.

You can see Hyunjin's too, piercing when they look directly at you. Warning, that you are overcomplicating things. That this is all about to be a mess, and you are no longer prepared for it. 

Your ire rises again. You know what has to happen, and what he will do to facilitate it, and you know your own roll. You know it all has to end. Who is he, to think you can't carry through on a promise? Who is he to doubt you?

IV.

The final coat is made of feathers plucked from the birds of the sea cliffs, tawny brown and ochre and cream. Hidden in the tunnels of the castle, Hyunjin tucks a sprig of samphire into the curl of your hair, picked from the edge of the world before you had left and wrapped carefully in paper made for preserving these kinds of things. A piece of home, brushing up against your ear every time you turn; a signal to those that you have let in the back door that you are a friend, in case you are caught in the havoc.

"What happened to your hands?" he asks as he steps back to look at you, his own lifting your wrists so that he can see the black marks on your fingers.

"There was grease on the gate lock, to stop it sticking," you reply. "It doesn't wash off like blood does."

He drops your hands just as fast as he'd picked them up, his eyes scanning the feathers again. As if it was this coat that you'd worn when you'd taken a knife to the man at the gate, as if he would find evidence of the blood on your hands smeared across the vanes if he only turns you this way and that. Silly of him, really - the edge of the fur coat was the one that bared the stains. The fur was made for the work of the hands. The feathers were only sent as a signal, a draw of the eyes, dropping in the path of your feet as you walk towards the ballroom.

"Stay away from the prince," Hyunjin warns you, his attention turning in the direction of his own path to the party. "He's looking for a particular girl that he saw last time. He'll have eyes everywhere."

"Not on the ground though," you answer, shaking out the coat and watching a feather of mottled brown drift to the floor. You ignore the way that your stomach dips at the mention of a girl. You neglect to mention that the girl he's looking for might be you, and the rouge brushed across your cheeks and the glitter of gold on your eyelids will only draw his eyes. 

You should have worn the dirt and hidden in the shadows, but that's not how they had prophesised it. The witches had whispered of a feather coat and a dress made of the sun and a moonlight shawl, and you'd been the one foolish enough to wear them, and no one in those rooms had been able to resist the magic of them, least of all the prince.

"Time to go," Hyunjin says as the bell tolls seven, and with one last look between you, you turn your seperate ways. 

You don't know where his heart resides, but you know that yours is in your throat. You hope that he survives the night. You hope that whatever he came here for is worth what it is going to cost.

V.

At the moment the ballroom bursts open, the black soldiers streaming in from every entrance, you are looking at the prince.

You hadn't meant to. You had taken Hyunjin's advice, as much as it grated at you to do it, and you had avoided him, skirting around the edges of the room while he searched in all the wrong places for you, dropping your feathers where the feathers wanted to fall and hiding in crowds of garish colour that sniffed and sneered at your coat of soft brown; but even though you don't wear the sun or the moon, you still orbit around him and him around you when you are in this room, and to stay away from him was-

Impossible, in the moment when you turn and there he is, right on your tail like the hunters following the birds to their nests in the cliffs, willing to jump from the rocks just to collect the eggs that might hide below. Except that he wasn't here to steal from you, or to catch you in his hands and tame you - he only thinks that you are beautiful, or that he could love you if only you gave him a chance.

And then the feathers ruffle and shift in the breeze, and the doors open, and the room fills with the men of the sea, axes and knives glinting in their hands and white teeth snarling within their faces.

Eerie silence falls as the room stutters to a halt, the shiny, red-faced aristocrats turning to stare at the army that have entered their sanctuary. The first one falls by the main entrance, his wine arcing through the air as he tumbles to the ground under the sharp blade of an axe; and then they scream, and they move in every direction, and in the maelstrom of silk and chiffon and eyes of horror you lose sight of the prince.

Slipping across the room is like fighting upstream against a raging river, ducking between bodies and around blades that don't have time to see the samphire behind your ear. You fade away into the one hallway you hadn't marked with a feather, disappearing into the black of the walls and the twisting tunnel down to the kitchens where just moments ago maids had scurried out to deliver the feast, and your heart breaks at the red-suited body that tumbles in on your heels, the eyes of a man in armour of beaten iron that take in your feathers and your face and turn away, back to the bloodbath, but you can't go back. You can't save him. 

And then a gutteral cry echoes down the tunnel, and a body blocks the light that flickers from its entrance, and there he is, your prince. His eyes are scared and his mouth open as he gasps for breath, the little knife he'd used on your countryman held in a white-knuckle grip in front of him as if he thinks he might need it again at any time. Blood splatters the front of his snow-white coat, tarnishing the pearls and sinking into every fibre of the cotton and wool that holds it together.

"It's you," he gasps between breaths, the words reverberating from the stone walls. "I found you."

"You-" you begin to say, but the words are lost in the storm of thoughts that cloud your mind, the race of scenarios that you can imagine coming from this unfateful meeting, this turn in the story that was never anticipated. Every step has been told to you up until now - the coats, and the feathers, and the rush of men into the ballroom that leads to the fall of a kingdom - but no one said a word about this. About him, the prince, the hands that now cup your heart to their chest, and the knives at his back as he stands there, just one step shallow of safety.

You think too much about what has happened and what could happen next, but you don't think at all when you reach out and grab him, dragging him down the tunnel and into the darkness, where only sporadic lanterns burn to guide the way. Around this corner and then that, down a staircase so steep that countless girls have broken their necks tripping on its uneven stones, into the warmth and light of the kitchen, where the smell of the pig roasting over the fire fills the air and the stack of pots waiting for you to wash them later in the night teeters towards the ceiling, stacked in one corner by several pairs of careless hands.

No one is here. They'd timed it deliberately for the arrival of the feast, when the attendants of the ball would all reconvene from the corners of the palace to the ballroom to fill their already ample stomachs. Incidentally, this meant that the kitchen staff were all in attendance too, arranging dishes under the watchful eye of the cook, which meant that when you tried to hide a prince in the kitchen-

"Wait," he says, dragging back against your hold on his arm. "Wait, I know a way out of the castle. I can take you where it's-"

"No," you cut across him before he can finish, and you tug at him again, dragging him step by step towards the maid's quarters. "They're in the hidden tunnels too. There's no way out."

He's so surprised that he forgets to resist you, his body going slack with his jaw and his feet following you across the room. "How do you know that?" he asks.

You don't dare to look back at him as you enter the room you share with the other girls, as you open the little chest-of-drawers that holds everything you brought with you (but not everything you own) and you pull out the clothes you wear day-to-day - grey trousers and a cream shirt slowly staining brown, and the coat of a thousand furs, its edges stained with fresh blood. "Put these on," you order him, shoving them into his arms without looking him in the eye, and then you turn your back.

"I wouldn't punish you for pretending to be from the court," he says to your back as he changes, the white jacket thrown to the dusty floor and then his shirt and breeches. "Or for knowing whatever you know. You saved my life." His boots are too nice to be a servant's, but yours won't fit him; you reach for Alice's old pair while he is busy, set neatly at the foot of her bed, and hand them to him when he is done, picking up the clothes he has discarded instead.

You saved my life too, you should say of the man he had killed, to keep up the illusion, but the lie seems wan in the face of the truth you are going to have to admit to him by the end of the night. You stalk past him instead, headed to the fire with the truth and the lies still sitting sour on your tongue.

The shirt and pants burn easily, the leather of the boots slow to sink between the logs that fuel the flame. You hesitate a moment before throwing the coat in after them, eyeing its precious pearls and hand-woven patterns of leaves and swirls. A silver brooch pinned to the lapel catches your eye; your thumb runs over it, feeling the careful details its maker has pressed together and the chips of diamond that embed its surface.

"That was my mother's," Felix says behind you, a certain grief hidden in the stiffness of his voice. "But you can burn it if you have to."

"I don't have to," you reply, and you work it free of the fabric with delicate and practised fingers. The coat feeds the flame; the brooch pins onto your dress, just above your heart.

 "Pretend to be a servant," you say as you turn to look at him. Your hands reach out to fix his coat, to smear the soot from the fireplace into his golden curls and down his cheeks. "I can't keep you alive if you're a prince, but if you're just a boy from the kitchens-"

His hands catch yours as they slip from his face, the ash that clings to your skin staining his as he grips them tight. "Who are you?" he questions. "What have you done?"

Tight-lipped, ashen-faced, you look up into his eyes - pale blue to forest brown, liar to honest truth. "I'm the feathercoat," you say, as if he will understand the words of a fable that people only whisper over the sea cliffs and the raging storms of the ocean. "I'm the one that brings the woodlands to their knees. I'm-"

Your voice chokes in your throat, your fingers growing numb from the force of his grip on your hands. There's a knife still tucked into his waistband - there's a knife behind him, stuck by its tip into the surface of the cutting board. You only have your feathers, and the excuses that stack up in the back of your throat; that the witches told us it would be so, or your land is the only gift my father will accept in place of a marriage to that man, or haven't you seen the way your father encroaches on our cliffs? Haven't you seen the way your farms destroy our hills and valleys and pollute our river? But those are all reasons that blame someone else, and you are the one that stands here, and the grease from the gate stains your fingers, not theirs-

"I loved you," he says, and he lets go of you like he has been burned. "I saw you across the room, and I thought no one could be so beautiful, and you can't even tell me the truth when-"

A shout echoes down the hall you'd escaped from, the rattle of armour and the thunder of heavy boots against the floor. "Wait," you say to him, a hand suspended in the air between you. You're afraid to touch him, when he could reach for that knife - when he deserves to see your blood run, for what you have done - but you can't let him run to his death all the same. "Wait until we live, and then I'll tell you, and then you can kill me. But wait. Take my hand and wait."

He hesitates, his eyes wary like he doesn't believe you, but the man on the stairs shouts again, calling for someone to follow him, and the fear shoots right into his heart and his hand slides into yours, his pulse fast but his fingers cold. 

"I don't want to kill you," he says, like a promise you can't believe he will keep. "Just keep me alive, and when the sun comes up, tell me everything. Please. I don't have any reason to kill you if everyone here is already dead."

"I will," you reply, and this is a promise that will be kept, whether or not he reaches for the knife when the light of the dawn comes. "I love you too, you know. I didn't mean to hurt you."

And yet, you have. And yet, the guilt and the feathers eat you alive.

---

PERMANANT TAGLIST

@amyyscorner @kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @keepswingin @rylea08 @puppysmileseungmin @thatonedemigodfromseoul

[bloogers-boogers]

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[askirkenzimstuff]

Would it be worse to be stuck working on a school project with Dib or Keef?

"Send the Armada."

[sleep-deprived-luka]

went through the sketchbooks of shame and found this doodle of wxs leaving Tsukasas room like it's a clowncar

[tyrantchimera]

So, uh.... anyone gonna talk about the fact that the tree of knowledge is A) the only tree in the garden of Eden depicted as being red (which is associated with evil in this intro story) and B) the only tree with very visible ROOTS?!?

Like, the roots of all evil? Literally??

No? Just me? Ah well.

[youredreamingofroo]

Wake up Roo. Wake up.

> Regard this as some sort of late April Fools prank for the almost Reo (Roo/Leo) kiss 🤭

[allastoredeer]

Hola deer I was wondering what are your thoughts of who might have Al on a leash…I know many people are speculating it to be Lilith, but I feel like There is no way Al had a whole breakdown song just for being Lilith lackeys. True it might be that he just wants his power back, but the idea of Lilith requesting Al to keep an eye on the hotel it’s not that bad per se. The way he reacted when Husk mentioned his leash, that was the face of a man who is terrified to lose control and making a deal with Charlie was his last remedy.

The man is desperate and I can’t stop thinking about the fact the he was already so powerful when he come to hell, And unless he met someone who had a lot of knowledge on the place before dying, I doubt he would have got the title of overlord that quickly. Someone must have helped him right?! Same with Lilith. As the story goes she became so very powerful when she feel in hell, but how? Do u just know what your power are and how to use them when u die? Lilith was the first of her kind to get down there, there was no one she could have taken inspiration from. And what about Al’s shadow? I mean what shadows have in correlation with a deer man with a microphone? To me it would make much more sense if when Al was alive, he got in contact with someone very powerful from hell and made the naive mistake to trust it. He sold his soul and he got shadows to help him through his murders, then Upon dying, he made a second mistake and momentarily forgot about his leash, going around and killing Overlords for his own entertainment, until he was called back to fulfill his end of the bargain.

My speculation is that root must have his soul and maybe even Lilith’s soul, or at least some kinda of deal with her, that got her to be the queen she is remembered as. Heaven is the only place where root eyes are not visible, and it might explain why Lilith disappeared for 7 years in the angel land , same as Al. Maybe Lilith helped Al in exchange of him taking care of his daughter for her or something, and while they were together Lilith might have accidentally influenced Al’s opinion on the king of hell as well, causing the man to hate him at first sight lol

Just imagining Lilith ranting about his ex husband to Alastor, like Charlie did about Vaggie, when they were going to cannibalism town it’s so funny to me.

I like the idea that She's just Luci's long-suffering wine mom friend who is amicably divorced from him and ends up gaining a second man child once Luci and Al get together. I think her being the villain it’s just too cliche and I feel like it would be so much better if she actually start bickering with Lucy, angry talking like two feral cats lol

But let me know what you think😆

I get why a lot of people are speculating that Lilith has Alastor on a leash, and I wouldn't be surprised (or upset) if she does, but I really think it's Roo.

Or, at least, I want it to be her so badly.

I agree that I don't think Alastor would have a mental breakdown over being Lilith's lackey. Honestly, I don't agree with whole idea/concept that Lilith is even the bad guy. Like, I won't be mad if she is, because I love corrupt or morally grey female characters, but I think there is so much more going on them meets the eye.

A lot of people saw that 5 second glimpse of her onscreen during the season finale and kind of just assumed she ditched Hell and her family to live it up in Heaven, but I just...that makes absolutely no sense to me, especially given how she's been depicted in the background during the show. Given what little we know about Lilith, I just cannot see her leaving Lucifer, Charlie, and her entire domain to go fuck around in Heaven, whom I imagine she wouldn't have a very good relationship with, anyway.

And yes! I also massively agree about Alastor getting his power from some kind of source. It was specifically stated that he was toppling Overlords and gaining power faster than anyone ever has before, and from what we can deduce from the show, Alastor has the power to actually kill sinners - which isn't supposed to be possible. The only way sinners are supposed to die is with angelic weaponry.

Not only that, it also hasn't been hinted or implied that anyone else has been able to rip apart souls like he does. As far as we've seen from the other Overlords, the most you can do is own someone's soul.

So we have Alastor over here rising to the top of the food chain almost over night, gaining power at a rapid pace, with abilities that no one else seems to have. Yeah, I 100% believe he made a deal with someone when he first came into Hell, and I think that person was Roo.

I mean, what motive would Lilith have for making a deal with this random sinner who just entered Hell? Out of the hundreds (if not thousands) of sinners who have to be arriving in Hell by the day? What would she have to gain by doing that? What could Alastor possibly offer her that she, the Queen of Hell, can't do herself?

But Roo? She's the Root of all Evil. She doesn't need a reason. She can be evil for the sake of being evil. I can see her picking a random, wide-eyed, recently deceased sinner and giving them the deal of a lifetime - one that she can cash in on later.

And even if it wasn't random, I can see her looking for a lackey to give power to, to then use as a pawn farther down the road. I can see her being cunning and careful with who she picks, and I 100% believe she would see Alastor's insecure ass and know that guy would do anything to get power (the faster the better), especially if he only just died and didn't yet understand the full scale and structure of Hell, and how serious those kinds of deals are.

(And I can also see Alastor making a deal with Roo when he was alive and then suffering the consequences of it when he died. That's be super cool.)

As for why, well, Roo obviously doesn't have much sway in Hell, despite being the Root of all Evil, because we don't see or hear about her at all throughout the show. If she had power over any of the 7 Rings, we would've seen it or heard about it. In fact, she's only been alluded to once, and that was in the first episode, during the opening sequence of Charlie explaining Hell's origin story.

Still, Roo has to interact with Hell in some way, considering she's the personification of evil and this is THE place for wickedness and corruption. I just don't think she has power or dominion there. At least, not yet ;)

I think she's been cooking up a scheme for a while and what we're seeing in season 1 is her slowly putting the game pieces into place. I think she has Alastor on a leash (that she's had him on a leash for a while but she's only just now using it), and I think she's also the reason Lilith is in Heaven.

I mean, when you think about it, of course she would want Lilith out of the picture if she's trying to make a power grab in Hell. Lilith was the one running the place. She thrived in Hell. She empowered it. So getting her out of the picture makes perfect sense, and who would even think to look for Lilith in Heaven? The very last place you'd expect her to be?

I don't know, the whole idea that Lilith is just a big bad evil women who doesn't care about her family and hates Hell and wants nothing to do with either of them just...it doesn't sit right. It doesn't make sense.

I do think that Lilith and Alastor have met each other in some way, though. The both of them disappearing for 7 years, at the same time, is too much of a coincidence (I want her and Alastor to be besties :3) and I just KNOW that there is more to Lucifer and Lilith's divorce than people give it credit for. I want those juicy details. I want a full blown argument between them so we can get that tea.

But if Lilith does end up being one of our antagonists in season 2, I won't be upset, cuz like I said, give me those morally corrupt women. They'll be loved and appreciated here.

Still, my gut says its Roo. And even if Roo isn't directly holding Alastor's leash, I think she's involved in some way and that she's going to be coming into play eventually. She seems like the type who would manipulate things from the shadows, using people as pawns, and playing a game that no one else even realizes they're playing. I want her to be a psychotic little mastermind trash lady.

I neeeeeeed it.

[roo-bastmoon]

New Bsky account

Friends, I don't think I can stay much longer over on Twitter, it's becoming a hellscape. Plus, the new terms & services has me deeply worried. I don't want to get sued just for openly disagreeing with the owner's politics.

I'll need some time to figure out how to navigate this new platform, but please consider making a blue sky account and joining me there!

Much much love,

Roo

PS Jikook to brighten your day!

[rachi-roo]

Warmup sketch~ Pov: Rachi is in mama mode and ready to make you squeal 🥰🩷

[kangaracha]

skz + losing 3racha

(this is actually written by @keepswingin, who found out i was saving this for a nevermore oneshot and said 'not if i write it first' and kicked me out of my own house)

---

The door creaks as he pushes it open, the room beyond dark and unwelcoming in a way it's never been before. Minho's not used to this - the quiet, the lack of unopened snacks sprawled throughout the room, the absence of clothes, of beanies, of half-finished verses scribbled hastily on scraps of paper or napkin or an old thank you card from a sponsor. 

The room used to be alive with his memory. Now it just sits, a void of their own making, because attempting to do anything otherwise was something Minho couldn't bring himself to do. Not then, not after, and certainly not now, even if it was the company forcing him to be in here after threatening of doing it themselves. And Minho would never let them do something like this themselves. Not now, not ever, not when it was something that concerned Jisung of all people. 

"Is this it?" she asks, attempting to peer over his shoulder. She's a ball of energy wrapped with anxiety, he could tell from the moment he met her, and he had hated it. Hated how it reminded him of Jisung, hated how it reminded him that the world around him would keep spinning even if his own had stopped still. 

"Yes," he whispers, willing his voice to stay steady. 

He takes a step inside, and can't stop his chest from hitching, the soft exhale that leaves him breathless. The bed is made, stripped of old sheets. The shelves are empty, the desk pushed into the biggest corner wiped clean and prepared with a brand new laptop sitting on top. 

She brushes past him gently and comes to a stop in the middle of the room, eyes flickering across what awaits her. Her hands squeeze into fists beside her, and Minho hears her chest hitch too, but when she turns to him, there is nothing but excitement glittering in her eyes. 

"Thank you," she says, even taking the time to bow. Minho can't bring himself to react, at least not when he's frozen like this, unable to form anything close to words as the odd feeling in his chest tightens more. "I'm so grateful your company is providing me with this opportunity, and that you guys are being so welcoming." 

She watches him for a long moment, and if she's waiting for Minho to say something, he can't, he can't, not when he's in Jisung's room with someone else and Jisung hasn't been here in months, and the last thing Minho ever said to him was something he never should have said at all, and then he was gone, they were all gone, and Minho and the rest of them were - 

"Minho-ssi?"

- left behind.

Minho blinks. He feels like he wants to scream, or cry, or not speak for a long while. "I'm sorry," he whispers, turning towards the door. "Please let us know if you need anything." He closes the door behind him just breathes a for a moment, before pressing his forehead to the wood and closing his eyes. 

He can pretend that it's Jisung shuffling around inside if he closes his eyes.

o

The room is a mess of wires and cameras as he sits off to the side in a lonesome chair, allowing a crew member of the channel they're interviewing for to clip a microphone onto the collar of his shirt. The man doesn't say much as he does, and Minho doesn't really pay attention as he leaves, his mind beginning to drift as he watches someone else struggle with fixing Seungmin's shirt in front of him.

He gets lost in a mind a lot these days, and sometimes he doesn't even realize he's lost until one of the members is gently tugging his attention back to the present, a soft look here, a gentle touch there. Too nice, for someone like Minho, who is the barbed wire thrown over a fence long forgotten. Sharp edges and a sharper tounge, once upon a time. Now, he feels like something lost in the wind, far from home. 

"Okay, we're ready to start!" The director announces, walking into the middle of the set and clapping his hands together. "I'd like to go over a few things before we begin." 

And then he waits, eyes scanning the room, like he's looking for someone in particular. He is, because he wants the leader of the group, the one in charge of Stray Kids as a whole, and Minho doesn't realize that he's talking about him until Hyunjin is beside him and gently tugging him up from the chair. 

Minho turns to him, something hot prickling in his throat. He would spit an insult, before. Now, he simply presses his lips together and allows Hyunjin to walk him over to the director with a stiff smile. 

The director waits patiently as Hyunjin apologizes on Minho's behalf, and then the older man launches into what he expects from the shoot, among some other things. Minho doesn't really listen, simply nodding his head when needed. 

He forgets to speak up, sometimes. When they're filming or out at an event that is mostly spoken in a different language he doesn't care about enough to learn. But he's had to learn, and he's had to lead, and none of it ever makes sense in his head because all he wants to do is lock himself in Jisung's room and never come back out. 

Sometimes he even goes as far as pretending that Chan is still around, only for that cavern in his chest to grow wider when he turns and finds he was never there to begin with. 

"What do you think?" the director asks, curious tone cutting through Minho's thoughts. "You know your group best." 

This isn't my group, he nearly corrects, mouth forming Chan's name like second nature. But Chan isn't here, and Chan isn't the leader of Stray Kids anymore. Lee Minho is the one in charge of the five original members, and the three new ones. 

("To keep the name relevant," a higher up had said to Minho as soon as he had asked about two girls joining with only one new boy, instead of keeping them as an all boy group. "Sales are down, and the media has finally stopped talking about the other three. We need to send a positive message of acceptance in these trying times.")

There's a rope cutting into his chest. He can't breathe. Hyunjin squeezes his shoulder, thumb pressing against his skin hard enough to hurt. It keeps him from crying. He's thankful he doesn't cry. He's not supposed to cry. 

Chan was never supposed to leave. 

"Whatever you think works best."

o

The studio is cold and bare of the energy it used to have when Changbin would be there alongside the other two, spitting curses or lyrics or swatting at whoever had decided to make fun of him in the moment. Now it's home to a revolving door of producers that Minho never likes. 

Some bring lyrics that are too disconnected for singles. Others merely want to pander to the girls, offering them notes that Seungmin and Jeongin were more than capable of nailing themselves. The b-sides don't flow like they used to, and far too many of them are disjointed and heavy in rapping that's too heavy for songs meant to be light. 

The chorography is the only thing that stays the same after all this time, the one thing Minho can still throw himself into without having to think. He's given Hyunjin and Felix more work to do in having to train two girls with left feet, though the new guy wasn't too bad, but they never complained. 

"Good," this producer tells him, waving a hand with a small smile. "That's all your lines." 

Minho wants to say something, anything. He wants to record the whole thing, strain his letters less, hit that note like how he should be able to. But the words well up in his throat, and nothing comes out. 

He nods, and murmurs his thanks as he pulls the headset off. 

The booth is too quiet. The producer is too quiet. 

Everything is too quiet without a voice to tie all of it together. 

o

He stands on the bridge and watches the boats as they pass underneath him, the wind stinging at his cheeks. Every breath fills his chest with cold air, and it keeps him here, and awake, and alive, as he watches the lights of the city blink and flicker in the distance. 

Minho had brought Jisung here, years ago. They had talked for hours, standing on the edge of the universe, even if it was nothing more than the pathway of a bridge. He had smiled so much that his cheeks had hurt, and Jisung's laughter had been the sweetest thing he had ever heard. Minho had hugged him - pulled him close and buried his face in the crook of his neck, stayed there until forever was something he thought possible. 

"I'll never forget you," he whispers against the next breeze, hoping it will carry his words to wherever they were, wherever Jisung was. "I don't think I ever could." An exhale that rattles his bones. "I don't want to." 

He closes his eyes. Listens to the wind, and the waves, and the beat of his own heart. 

Something warm wraps around him, squeezing him tight. It feels like someone he knows. He doesn't open his eyes, afraid to shatter whatever illusion his mind has created this time. And then a hitch of breath, and a small, raspy voice, whispering close to his ear. 

"You don't have to."