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thepinkpanther83 · 3 days ago

Note

Reader is sitting at the hellfire club table in the cafeteria when Eddie approaches with the intentions to make reader flustered but it backfires.

Please and thank you 😊

Error 404: Smoothness Not Found

One-Shot Request: “Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thanks to @meankenna for sending in this funny and adorable prompt, I had fun imagining Eddie getting absolutely wrecked by a smooth, unbothered Reader. You’re keeping the Hellfire chaos alive and I love ya for it. 💖 Hope this flirty lil romp makes you smile! 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

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Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

🎸 Summary: Eddie Munson doesn’t get nervous. He’s a Dungeon Master, a guitar god, a champion of cafeteria theatrics.

But when he sets out to fluster a cool, calm outsider at the Hellfire table with one of his classic lines, he gets hit with something he didn’t expect: his own game, turned on him.

A one-shot full of sharp banter, unexpected sparks, and the kind of lunchroom showdown that might just lead to love.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

The cafeteria was its usual midday jungle, linoleum floors sticky with mystery stains, the air thick with teenage body spray and tater tots, and the low roar of adolescent chaos echoing off the walls. But over in the far-left corner, where the Hellfire Club had permanently claimed their domain, the chaos took on a distinctly nerdy flavor.

Dustin was in full meltdown mode.

“I’m telling you, Jeff, if my d20 mysteriously lands on a one again, I’m invoking dice tampering and demanding a re-roll.”

“On what grounds?” Jeff snorted, clutching his carton of chocolate milk like it was a rare artifact. “Your own bad luck isn’t a war crime, Henderson.”

Mike chimed in with a muttered, “You’re just mad your rogue keeps falling in love with NPCs,” while Gareth and Grant broke into a cackling duet, drumming out the Jaws theme on their trays.

Amid the storm of mockery and snacks, you sat calmly at the edge of the table, a quiet satellite in the Hellfire galaxy. You weren’t a member, but you’d been absorbed into the gravitational pull somehow, maybe through mutual classes, or shared disdain for cafeteria food. Either way, no one questioned your presence anymore. You didn’t play D&D, but you definitely watched it like a sociologist. Or a cat observing a very lively fish tank.

You balanced a crossword puzzle on one knee, methodically chewing through baby carrots and ignoring the shrieking over critical failures. Your pencil tapped a rhythm against the paper as you searched for a six-letter word meaning charming but doomed. You smirked to yourself. The answer was probably Munson.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

The cafeteria doors banged open like the prelude to a boss battle, and there he was, Eddie Munson, leather-jacketed menace, King of the Freaks, and current front-runner in your personal list of “People Who Flirt Like It’s a Performance Art.”

You didn’t even have to look up to know he’d clocked you. You could feel it, that strange static charge that always rolled in with him like thunder before a storm. Somewhere between his combat boots and his wild mop of curls, the man managed to manufacture drama like it was a bodily function.

And judging by the slow curl of his smirk, he was already planning an ambush.

Eddie didn’t walk. He made an entrance.

Combat boots hit tile like a drumline. His rings clicked with every exaggerated gesture, like punctuation marks to an invisible sentence. The cafeteria didn’t look up, most of them had learned to just let Eddie Munson exist in his own dimension, but the Hellfire table definitely noticed.

Grant leaned toward Gareth with a muttered, “He’s got that look again.”

“Uh-oh,” Gareth whispered, catching the target of Eddie’s laser-focused attention. “Incoming flirt assault.”

You didn’t flinch. Pencil still in hand, you marked another square on your crossword as Eddie approached like a lion on a catwalk.

He came to a dramatic halt just beside you, resting one hand on the back of your chair and the other over his heart like he was preparing to recite Shakespeare.

His voice dropped into that low, faux-sultry register he used when he was laying it on way too thick.

“So, how’s the prettiest person in the world doing today?”

You didn’t even blink.

From across the table, Dustin made a noise like someone stepping on a wet clarinet. “Oh god,” he groaned, slapping his forehead. “Here he goes again.”

Mike muttered, “Please crash and burn,” under his breath like a spell, while Jeff and Grant leaned forward in quiet anticipation.

The table was holding its collective breath. But you? You were still calm. Unbothered. Pencil still tapping gently against your knee.

Cool as a cucumber in the middle of a microwave, you finally glanced up, lazily. Sipped your drink. Eyebrows lifted just a touch. Expression unreadable, and said flatly-

“I don’t know. How are you?”

It hit him like a crit to the chest.

Record scratch. System failure. Reboot error.

Eddie.exe had stopped responding.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Mouth parted like a Windows update was about to install. His brain buffer wheel was visibly spinning behind those wide brown eyes. For one glorious moment, the man was entirely speechless.

And the table?

Dead silent.

Even Dustin was in awe.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

The confidence? Gone. Swagger? Missing in action. Leather jacket? Still fabulous, but definitely not helping him now.

He cleared his throat once, then again, like he could cough the embarrassment out of his lungs.

“I’m…”

He tried again. Voice pitched slightly higher, cracked on the last syllable like an untrained choirboy.

“I’m fine.”

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

Grant choked on his apple slice.

Gareth slapped both hands on the table like he was witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god. He short-circuited.”

Dustin leaned across the table with gleeful menace. “Are you blushing, dude? Did we just watch Eddie ‘Nothing Phases Me’ Munson malfunction over a one-liner?”

“Mark the date,” Mike added, eyes wide, like he was witnessing history. “We just witnessed the fall of a legend.”

Eddie raised both middle fingers without breaking eye contact with you, the picture of performative defiance… except for the faint pink flush creeping up his cheeks, giving him away entirely.

You just sipped your drink again, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly.

You were enjoying this. Too much.

And Eddie knew it.

He was in trouble.

You watched him flounder, savoring every second of it like the first sip of something fizzy and dangerous. Eddie Munson, master of theatrics, king of the underdogs, flirt extraordinaire, was currently melting like a record left too close to a heater.

And he knew it.

Finally, after dragging the silence out just long enough to make him squirm, you tilted your head and really looked at him, slow, deliberate, eyes scanning from his tangled curls to the panicked gleam in his eyes.

Then, you smiled.

Not wide. Not dramatic.

Just the faintest upward tug at the corner of your lips, small, sharp, smug.

“Gotcha,” that smirk said without needing a word.

Eddie visibly twitched. He’d been bested. Checkmated. Absolutely wrecked.

And the worst part?

He liked it.

Your pencil returned to your crossword, but before you started filling in the next clue, you shifted slightly, nudging your tray to the side with just enough space to make the invitation obvious.

“You gonna sit or just hover there short-circuiting?”

He blinked. You watched the moment his brain reconnected with his body.

“Y-Yeah,” he muttered, trying to inject some cool back into his voice and absolutely failing. “I can… yeah.”

He slid into the seat beside you like it was his idea, like he wasn’t internally screaming, like this wasn’t the first time someone had flipped his game upside down and laughed about it.

Grant gave him a slow clap. Dustin made the international L hand sign for “Loser.” Mike stage-whispered, “He’s already down bad.”

But Eddie barely heard them.

Because now he was sitting next to you, and you were still smirking.

And he had no idea what you were going to do next.

But suddenly…

He really, really wanted to find out.

The moment Eddie sat down, you went right back to your crossword like he hadn’t just face-planted into a flirt trap of his own making. But there was a smug, satisfied ease to your posture now, and it was driving him insane in the best way.

Eddie leaned in a little, elbows on the table, trying to recover some semblance of control. “So…” he started, flashing his signature grin, though it wobbled at the edges now, like his pride had a dent in it. “You always this dangerous during lunch?”

Without looking up, you replied dryly:

“Only when provoked.”

That grin faltered again. He pushed on anyway.

“Gotta say, sweetheart, you’ve got some serious nerve turning the tables on me.”

You circled a clue. “Was that your A-game just now? Because if it was…” You finally met his eyes, head tilting.

“Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Grant wheezed. Dustin slammed his tray in approval. “SOMEONE GIVE HER A TROPHY.”

Eddie put a hand to his chest like he’d been struck. “Ouch. I come over here offering my heart, and maybe a little of my lunch money, and I get roasted like a damn marshmallow.”

“You came over here with a pickup line you’ve probably used on half the marching band.”

He gasped. “Now that’s just… okay, that’s fair.”

You turned to face him more fully, one leg crossing over the other. “Don’t take it too hard, Munson. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

For a moment, Eddie just stared. Like that one sentence had detonated whatever was left of his dignity.

“I… uh-”

He blinked rapidly. “See, now that’s just cruel. You can’t just casually say something like that. I’m emotionally fragile.”

You smirked again. “Yeah? You seem really delicate.”

“Emotionally, not physically!” he said, flailing slightly. “I’m tough. I headbang. I do mosh pits.”

“You cried during The Last Unicorn, Eddie.”

“Dustin promised he wouldn’t tell anyone that!”

“Oh, he didn’t,” you said, quirking a brow. “You did. Last week when you got drunk. Very dramatically.”

Dustin nodded solemnly. “You reenacted the scene with full narration.”

Eddie sagged into the table. “This is bullying.”

You nudged his elbow with yours. “No. This is flirting. Try to keep up.”

His head shot up, eyes wide.

Oh yeah, he was so down bad.

The banter didn’t stop, it just evolved. Sharper, brighter, like the two of you were passing jokes back and forth faster than the Hellfire boys could keep up. Eddie was grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. You were still smirking, but now there was a glint in your eyes, something softer, warmer.

It wasn’t a competition anymore.

It was a rhythm.

You reached for your juice box just as Eddie leaned over to grab a napkin, your fingers brushed.

Not full-on hand-holding. Just the tips. Just enough for his breath to catch.

And his heart? Yeah. That thing skipped like a scratched tape.

You didn’t flinch. But your eyes flicked up, met his. The faintest pulse, electric, unspoken.

He recovered fast, tossing you a wink. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cop a feel.”

“Eddie,” you said flatly, “your finger grazed mine. Settle down before you need a cigarette.”

“Oof. Brutal,” he grinned, tilting his head. “I’m just trying to build some romantic tension here. Let me live.”

“I’m still recovering from the Last Unicorn thing,” you teased, just as Eddie picked up Gareth’s half-finished can of grape soda for no reason at all.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was laughing too hard.

It came out of him in a loud, sudden honk bark, surprised and delighted by you. He threw his head back and bumped the can with the edge of his palm, sending purple fizz skittering across the table and directly into Jeff’s lap.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Jeff: “Dude.”

Eddie froze mid-cackle, still grinning like an idiot. “Oh my god. I swear that wasn’t planned.”

“I just washed these jeans!” Jeff wailed, jumping up.

But you were laughing now too.

Really laughing.

Head back, lips parted, one hand over your stomach. It hit you in a wave, sudden and genuine, the way good moments always do when you least expect them. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was just… joy.

And Eddie looked at you like someone had just turned the sun on.

For all the chaos, for all the fizzy embarrassment, he couldn’t stop staring.

“There it is,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

You glanced over, catching the look. “There what is?”

He blinked. Smile crooked. “Nothing. Just… I win.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you do, soda assassin.”

But your knee bumped against his under the table and neither of you moved away.

The table was still buzzing with secondhand embarrassment and grape soda residue, but Eddie had stopped noticing everything around him.

He was fully zeroed in on you now, watching the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way you kept nudging him like the two of you had done this a thousand times before. Like it was natural.

You teased him again about the soda, something about “friendly fire” and “reckless endangerment of cafeteria fashion,” and he just grinned, all teeth and dimples and overwhelmed brain cells.

And then-

“Oh my god,” Dustin groaned loudly. “You’re literally drooling. Just ask her out already.”

Eddie choked.

Mike, who hadn’t looked up from his peanut butter sandwich in minutes, casually added, “Seriously. You’re embarrassing yourself and the dice gods.”

Eddie whipped his head around, eyes wide, face flaming. “I am not drooling!”

Dustin raised his brows. “Your mouth’s open. You keep staring. You just spilled a drink because she laughed. That’s a rom-com trifecta, man.”

Eddie looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth out of sheer panic.

You, meanwhile, turned toward him slowly, resting your chin in your hand, eyes twinkling with dangerous amusement.

“Is that true?” you asked, voice light. “You planning to ask me out?”

The whole table went still.

Gareth’s spoon halfway to his mouth. Jeff frozen mid-blotting his jeans. Even Grant paused mid-sip of whatever mystery fluid he’d found in the vending machine.

Eddie swallowed hard.

You tilted your head. Not pushing. Not teasing this time.

Just… curious.

And flirtatious as hell.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like he was loading a save file from deep within his soul.

He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and, miraculously, dialed it down. Just a notch. Enough that the swagger melted into something real beneath the surface noise. Less Dungeon Master, more Eddie.

“So hey,” he said, rubbing his palms against his jeans like he wasn’t sweating bullets, “if you’re not busy Friday night…”

You raised a brow, waiting. Dangerous glint back in your eyes.

“Wanna grab a burger and shake with me or something? Nothing fancy. Just... you and me. Maybe I don’t trip over anything or knock drinks over this time.”

The table leaned in as one collective being, holding its breath.

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to make him squirm. Not cruelly. Just a moment of power. Of play.

And then, with the faintest smile tugging at your lips:

“Only if you promise not to start with another cheesy line.”

Eddie exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. Grin spreading again, lopsided and a little dazed.

“No promises,” he said, “but I’ll try my best.”

From across the table, Gareth let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “God, finally. I was about to start drawing hearts around your names on my character sheet.”

Dustin fist-pumped. “Hellfire matchmaking is real.”

You turned to Eddie one last time, eyes warm now, no teasing, just interested.

“Pick me up at seven, Munson.”

And just like that, you turned back to your crossword. Calm. Casual. Still in control.

Eddie sat there stunned for a second, watching you like you’d just cast a spell he didn’t know how to break.

“Holy shit,” he whispered to no one in particular.

“Did that just work?”

The moment you agreed to the date, all hell broke loose.

“WOOOOOO!” Dustin shot up from his seat like a firework. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Gareth banged a plastic fork against his tray like it was a gong. “Get it, Munson!”

Mike, ever the realist, just shook his head with a smirk. “She’s way out of your league, man.”

Jeff added dryly, “I think she just asked you out, technically.”

Eddie threw his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, calm down, you gremlins! You’re embarrassing me in front of my date.”

Dustin grinned. “You embarrassed yourself, dude. We’re just the backup dancers.”

You stood up slowly, collecting your tray with easy grace, as if you hadn’t just turned Eddie Munson into a walking heart-eye emoji in front of half the cafeteria.

As you passed behind him, you casually reached out, fingers threading through a few curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly, just enough to make him sit up straighter.

Your hand drifted forward, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw with the softest tease of a caress.

“See you at seven, Eddie.”

And just like that, you walked away, cool, unbothered, radiant.

Eddie was left blinking at the air you left behind, looking like he’d just astral projected. He turned slowly back to the table, eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Did that really just happen?” He looked around. “You guys saw that, right?”

Dustin patted his shoulder solemnly. “We saw, buddy. We all saw.”

Gareth nodded. “You okay? You look like you got hit with a charm spell.”

Eddie just stared into the distance, a soft, stunned smile curling on his lips.

“I think I’m in love.”

Part Two Follow Up: "Error 404: First Date Loading"

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially

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the-most-humble-blog · 3 months ago

Text

Taint Misbehavin’: The Gender-Neutral Tragedy of the Human Gooch

Also known as: “Yes, Women Have Taints Too, Karen”

Let’s not dance around it.

Let’s not whisper like this is health class with a priest in the back row.

Let’s walk straight into the fleshy Bermuda Triangle and ask:

“Is the word ‘taint’ gender-specific?”

And by the end of this hellride, you’ll be spiritually aligned, anatomically educated, and emotionally compromised.

☠️ What Even Is a Taint?

Let’s get it out of the way:

Medical term: perineum

Street name: taint

Alias: gooch, grundle, the devil’s slip-n-slide, sin canal, the no-fly zone, the forbidden footpath

It’s the stretch of skin between your hoo-ha and your oh-no.

Between the exit wound and the splash zone.

Between your business and your past due notices.

In medical terms:

“The perineum is the area between the anus and the genitals.” In real terms: “The taint taint your genitals, and it taint your butthole.” Hence: taint.

It’s an anatomical gray area. A biological liminal space. A no-man’s-land paved in skin, sweat, and shame.

🧠 The Real Question:

“Do women have one?”

Yes.

Yes, they do.

Unequivocally. Universally. Unapologetically.

That smooth criminal between the peach and the portal?

That’s a taint.

Whether you’re packing meat or melons,

bulge or buffet,

beef curtain or bologna pony —

you got a taint.

🧬 But Isn’t “Taint” a Guy Thing?

Let’s be fair.

The term taint got famous via male-coded locker room vernacular.

It traveled in sweaty gym bags next to Axe body spray and bad decisions.

It’s been used in:

Xbox Live lobbies

Middle school roast battles

Joe Rogan monologues

Divorce court

Why?

Because it’s hilarious.

Say it out loud:

TAINT.

It hits like a cartoon punch.

It sounds dirty, but vague.

You can say it on TV but not in church.

But just because the culture gave the word to men…

Doesn’t mean the anatomy is exclusive.

🚺 Let’s Talk Female Taint

You know what else taint the butthole or the vag?

That smooth little fleshy runway between the two.

That’s right.

That’s the taint.

Scientifically? Still called the perineum.

But culturally?

We never branded it.

Never gave it a nickname.

Never gave it the comedic reverence it deserves.

So what happened?

Society failed the female taint.

📉 Cultural Bias: We Named Everything BUT the Taint

Let’s review:

Boobs: check

Butt: covered

Clit: overanalyzed

Labia: poetic if you're a feminist or an art student

Taint: absolute radio silence

It’s the only part of the female anatomy that hasn’t been objectified, hypersexualized, or used in a Billie Eilish metaphor.

And that’s the tragedy.

We gave the taint to men and let women walk around with an unclaimed flesh strip of mystery.

Not anymore.

💀 Taint Equality = True Equality

The taint is the only body part that:

Isn’t gendered

Isn’t politicized (yet)

Isn’t Instagrammable

Isn’t sacred

Isn’t slutty

Isn’t shamed

Isn’t holy

It’s just… there.

Raw. Unfiltered. Indifferent.

And that’s why it’s beautiful.

It taint one thing. It taint another.

It’s both. It’s neither. It’s us.

📚 Linguistic Warfare: Other Terms for the Taint (Unisex Edition)

Gooch

Grundle

Fleshbridge

Forbidden Fajita

The No-No Tundra

The UnderCooch

Devil’s Hallway

Sin Sled

Emotionless Alley

The Oathbreaker’s Strip

Let’s take back the language. Let’s name the female undercarriage.

Let’s democratize the grundle.

🧼 Taint Maintenance: Because Gender Don’t Matter When You Sweat

Male or female — taint funk is real.

That’s where:

Gym shorts go to die

Sweat turns into regret

Body wash loses its nerve

You don’t need a gender-specific care routine.

You need a loofah, some humility, and the knowledge that if your taint smells like old garlic knots, you’re the problem.

🥇 The Taint Test (For Equality Warriors)

Ask any feminist, activist, or gender studies professor:

❓ “Do women have a taint?” ❓ “Can we say gooch in a female context?” ❓ “If ‘taint’ only applies to men, are we guilty of linguistic patriarchy?” ❓ “Can you reclaim your power if you haven’t acknowledged the zone between zones?”

Watch the hesitation.

Because when it comes to taint talk, everyone’s a coward.

Not you.

You’re still reading.

You’re brave.

You believe in gooch equity.

🤯 TL;DR

“Taint” = slang for perineum, the strip of skin between genitals and butthole.

Scientifically accurate for both men and women.

Culturally, it’s been branded as male — but that’s a lie.

The female taint is real. Untouched. Sacred. Neglected. Powerful.

It’s time to stop acting like the perineum is a gendered mystery.

It taint male. It taint female. It’s humanity’s final frontier.

💣 CALL TO ACTION (You Know What Time It Is)

🔁 Reblog this before someone says “cisnormative taint privilege” unironically

🍑 Share if your gooch deserves more respect than your last situationship

🧽 Screenshot and send to someone who definitely forgot to wash theirs today

🫧 Repost this if you believe in full-body equality — from nipples to Netherrealm

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER (BECAUSE TUMBLR SOFTIES LOVE TO SNIFF DRAMA):

This post is satire, commentary, anatomy education, performance art, literary disobedience, and a goddamn act of bravery.

It is protected under U.S. law, natural law, and the sacred covenant of locker room humor.

If this offends you, congrats — your gooch is probably neglected.

This post does not discriminate. It exfoliates.

Take a seat. Open a book. Scrub your taint.

We out here equalizing the perineum discourse with no apologies.

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stillalivebydemand893 · 6 days ago

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Mosh Pits & Real Bruises

18+(can't keep it pg13 even if i tried)

A chaotic weekend at Riot Fest becomes a battle of unresolved tension when you’re forced to share a tent with Erik

The moment you stepped out of Julia’s Jeep and into the chaos of Riot Fest, you knew this weekend was going to end in either sex, arson, or both.

Mud. Music. Mayhem.

And him.

Erik. Fucking. Campbell.

Shirtless. Covered in tattoos. Sunglasses on despite the fact it was cloudy as shit. Holding a six-pack of root beer like it was the Holy Grail and he was the sin-soaked Indiana Jones of your nightmares.

You froze. Eyeliner? Shaking.

“JULIA,” you hissed.

“What?” she replied, with the stone-cold cool of someone who definitely knew what she did. She popped her gum like a villain. “I thought you’d be happy. I put you in the same tent. Save on space. And, y’know…”

She raised an eyebrow.

“The friction.”

You blinked. “I’m going to end you.”

“Don’t dry hump too hard,” she added cheerfully, grabbing her duffel. “The zippers can’t handle that kind of tension. Trust me. I speak from deeply unfortunate experience.”

You spun on her, ready to either scream or cry or crawl into a garbage can.

“You what?! Jules, are you serious?Im going to faint, I need three packs of Marlboros and a gallon of tequila right fucking now.”

“It’ll be fine,” she shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Cue Erik walking up like he heard from God Himself.

“Peach,” he said, dragging the nickname out like a goddamn love song dipped in sarcasm. “Nice to see your eyeliner survived the car ride. Did you use paint thinner this time?”

“You’re one joke away from getting buried alive in a port-a-potty, Campbell.”

Still, you hugged him.. The worst part? He felt good. Warm. Familiar. Like the disaster you never quite outgrew.

This was the guy who made you fall in love with KISS when he showed you Detroit Rock City on DVD ages ago. He used to made fun of you every time you sobbed at the end like a widow.

“THEY MADE UP, ERIK. AT THE CONCERT. IT’S FUCKING BEAUTIFUL,” you’d wailed once, sobbing into his shirt.

He just laughed. “Get a grip, Jesus. You’re leaking.”

Now, standing here, shirtless and smug, he was the same annoying bastard. But hotter. More dangerous.

“By the way,” he added, casually, “don’t spray that crime-against-noses perfume inside the tent again. I swear I sneezed for five hours straight last year.”

You flipped him off. “I’ll just fart instead.”

He nearly tripped over the tent trying to chase you down.

And just like that, war was declared.

By 4 PM your Docs were murdering your feet, you were on your third vodka Red Bull, and Erik had already managed to:

• Flirt with both bartenders.

• Arm wrestle a guy in a fishnet bodysuit.

• Steal a joint from a group of hippies and pretend he “found it on the ground.”

And somehow still have enough energy to piss you off every 15 minutes.

You were mid-rant about your boots when Julia dropped a bomb from her festival chair like she was narrating a true crime documentary.

“So... tiny thing. Your ex is here.”

You stopped chewing your fry.

“WHAT?Don’t joke with things like that Jules!I almost choked.”

“Brad. Cargo shorts. Tank top. Emotional damage.”

You blinked. Hard. Calculating whether stabbing him with a corn dog stick was legally considered assault or performance art.

Erik plopped down beside you. “Why do you look like you’re planning a crime?”

“Her ex is here,” Julia replied, sipping a neon drink .

“Fucking Brad? Is he still pretending to care about climate change to get laid?”

“Worse,” Julia said. “He’s with that TikTok blonde. Looks like she filters her soul.”

You stood, rage bubbling. “Nope. I’m leaving. Give me the keys. I’ll walk to the next state.”

Julia grabbed your wrist. “No. Screw him. Let’s get drunk. Start a pit. Snap a few bones for fun!”

Then Erik stood too, voice low, smirk deadly.

“Or…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Or?”

He leaned in. “We pretend we’re together. You sit on my lap. We kiss. He combusts. I win. You win. Everyone else loses.”

“Why would you enjoy it?”

“I’ve been dying to shut you up with my mouth since sophomore year.”

Your brain said no. Your body? Already glitching.

Your knees? Compromised.

You glared. “That’s evil.”

He grinned, stepping closer. “And hot.”

You took a breath. “Fine. But if you do anything weird, I will kill you with a glow stick.”

He leaned into your ear, voice pure sin.

“Peach, I invented weird.”

Ten Minutes Later

You were in Erik’s lap.

His arms wrapped around your waist.

His hand? Under your skirt, just resting on your thigh. Just enough to drive you crazy without doing anything explicitly illegal.

“This is… disturbingly comfy,” you admitted.

“You’re welcome. I make a great emo couch.”

“You’re also warm. I might keep you.”

He tensed. Just barely. Then squeezed your hip.

“Careful, sweetheart. I might not let you go.”

Your heart betrayed you.

Then- here came Brad. Like a walking red flag and discount cologne.

He looked over.

You smiled.

Erik leaned in, lips brushing your neck.

“Smile for the cheaters,” he whispered.

You ground down just enough to make him hiss.

“You’re playing with fire, Peach.”

You looked back, eyes glowing with mischief.

“Then burn with me.”

Suddenly: “FOO FIGHTERS, BABY! LET’S FUCKING GOOOOO!” Julia screamed, sprinting toward the stage like her taxes depended on it.

Erik helped you down, and you laced your fingers through his.

Then, without thinking, you grabbed his hand and wrapped it around your waist as you walked.

“What’s this?” he murmured, smirking against your temple.

“Just wanted you to hold me,” you mumbled. Vodka was 80% of your blood. Truths were leaking.

Erik rubbed his jaw like it physically pained him. “Jesus, Peach. You’re drunk. And you’re killing me.”

You giggled. “I am drunk. But don’t die. I want to kiss you before you turn into a ghost.”

His grip on you tightened.

“Peach…”

You turned to him. “Yeah?”

He looked at you like he wanted to kiss you and start a fire at the same time.

“You better mean it. Because if I kiss you… it’s not fake anymore.”

You smiled.

Twenty minutes later, you were tipsy off vodka slushies and Erik’s smug hand on your waist.

The music was thunder. The crowd? Unhinged. You could feel the bass in your spine. Somewhere, someone was vomiting behind a speaker.

Romance was in the air.

You were pressed up against Erik, half-dancing, half-grinding, fully pretending you weren’t imagining what it would be like to climb him like a jungle gym and scream into his mouth.

“Peach,” he warned, voice in your ear, “if you keep looking at me like that, we are not making it to the end of this set.”

“Good,” you purred, letting your hand trail up under his shirt, just slightly. “Then let’s end it early.”

He visibly malfunctioned. You could practically hear the Windows XP shut-down sound in his brain.

“I hate you.”

“You wish.”

Then-

“BRING ME THE HORIZON’S STARTING, LET’S GO DIE IN A PIT!” Julia screamed, launching herself into the crowd like a goddamn Viking.

You whooped, grabbed Erik’s hand, and pulled him in after her.

Big mistake. Huge.

The Mosh Pit

It was a war zone. Sweat. Boots. Elbows. You got hit in the ribs twice, and you loved it. Someone screamed, someone lost a shoe, someone proposed to their girlfriend mid-breakdown. You lived for it.

Until someone shoved you. Hard.

Your boot caught in the mud. Your body lurched. And before you could hit the ground-

Arms. Around you. Tight. Warm. Familiar.

Erik.

He caught you mid-fall, pulling you flush against his chest like you weighed nothing. The look on his face?

Absolute panic + raging murder boner.

“ARE YOU OKAY? WHO THE FUCK SHOVED YOU?”

“I’m fine,” you gasped, but your knees said liar, and your ribs weren’t vibing either.

Erik scanned the pit like he was about to start swinging. “I will punch someone into the sun.”

“Chill, Campbell.”

“No,” he snapped, grabbing your face in both hands, eyes dark. “You do not get to die in my arms because some punk jackass couldn’t handle the circle pit. You’re mine, got it? If anyone’s going to bruise you, it’s gonna be me. Consensually.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“…That was the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Fuck it,” he muttered, lifting you bridal-style like it was nothing. “You’re done. We’re going back.”

“Erik, I can walk-”

“You limped. I saw it. Don’t argue. I’m turned on and concerned and that’s a terrible combo.”

By the time you got back to the tent, you were buzzed, bruised, and completely feral.

Erik laid you down gently like you were made of glass, then immediately turned into a one-man emergency team. He yanked his hoodie off, shoved it under your head, grabbed a half-used first aid kit from his bag, and muttered to himself like he was about to perform surgery.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked.

“My soul. Also my ribs.”

He huffed out a laugh and lifted your shirt,carefully. You watched his face go from playful to holy shit as he caught sight of the forming bruise.

His fingers brushed it softly.

His jaw clenched.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmured, not looking up. “I thought-fuck. I thought I was gonna lose you.”

“You’d miss me?” you teased, even though your heart was hammering like a war drum.

He finally met your gaze. And this time, there was no joke in his voice.

“Peach. I don’t think I’d recover.”

You swallowed.

The tension exploded like a firework at point blank.

One second you were staring at him.

The next?

Mouths. Colliding.

Tongues. Teeth. Desperation. Heat.

He kissed you like he was mad at you. Like he wanted to ruin you and hold you forever all at once.

You moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

He groaned against your lips. “You sure?”

You nodded, whispering: “Just don’t stop.”

That was all he needed.

He tugged your shirt off, eyes devouring every inch like you were a feast and he was starving.

“God, look at you,” he breathed. “All mine. Finally.”

“Less talking,” you panted. “More ruining me.”

He smirked.

“Brat.”

And then he did exactly that.

You were pinned to the floor of the tent, chest rising, breath ragged.

He hovered above you, hair falling into his eyes, skin flushed and glowing from the adrenaline of the pit and from you. His hands were everywhere. Up your thighs, along your waist, gripping, claiming.

“Say it,” he growled against your neck, voice low and wrecked. “Say you want this.”

You gasped, back arching into him as his mouth sucked just below your collarbone, hard enough to bruise.

“I want this.” You swallowed, voice shaking. “I want you.”

That did it.

He crushed his mouth to yours with the kind of heat that short-circuited your brain. Tongues tangled, teeth clashed. His hands slid under your shirt,greedy, like he couldn’t decide what to touch first. The feel of him pressed between your legs had you melting.

You rolled your hips up into him, and he growled.

“God, Peach…” His lips traced fire down your throat. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You first,” you breathed, dragging his shirt up and over his head. He helped, then dove right back in, hands skimming your sides like he was memorizing you by feel alone.

You were bare from the waist up in seconds, cool air hitting hot skin, and Erik froze. His eyes roamed every inch of you, jaw clenched like he was holding back a scream.

“You’re not real,” he muttered.

“Then keep touching me until I am.”

He did.

His mouth closed around your nipple and you cried out, fingers fisting in his hair, dragging him closer. His free hand slid between your thighs, over your underwear, pressing just enough to make your legs shake.

He kissed his way up your chest, lips swollen, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You moaned, hips lifting.

He smirked. “All for me?”

“Only for you.”

And then,he moved his hand.

Slow. Firm. Torturous.

You bit your lip, trying to stay quiet, but he just chuckled darkly.

“Don’t hold back now, baby.” His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear. “I wanna hear how badly you need me.”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back as he leaned in, voice dark and delicious in your ear.

“I’ve waited years for this, Peach. I’m not stopping until you forget your name.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Deeper. The kind of kiss that made your body melt, made your legs fall open, made you want to cry.

Your bodies ground together in a rhythm that felt filthy and perfect, a desperate.

Clothes disappeared. Hands roamed. Skin on skin, breathless and begging.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Erik, please-”

He pulled back, eyes black with want.

“Anything you want,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m yours.”

“I’m never letting you into a mosh pit again,” he growled, dragging his fingers down your thigh where a scrape still stung.

“I’m never wearing a bra again.”

He blinked.“God bless.”

You smirked and pressed into his hand like the brat you were,already warm, already soaked from adrenaline and the way his voice rasped when he was pissed and turned on at the same time.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice full of danger. “All needy and whiny. My little brat.”

And then,zip.

Your eyes dropped.

Holy shit.

Pierced. Leaking. Ready to ruin you.

Your lips parted involuntarily.

“Someone’s excited to meet me,” you purred, with innocence while inching closer .

“Count your blessings, sweetheart.” He grinned darkly.

Before you could say anything back, he slid into you in one brutal, perfect thrust,no warning, no mercy. You bit down on a gasp, but he was already there, covering your mouth with his, swallowing every moan like it was his favorite song.

And it was. You could feel it. The way he moved. The way his hands gripped your waist like a lifeline. The way his tongue tangled with yours like it was personal.

“Fuck, Peach,” he groaned against your lips. “You feel like you were made for me.”

One hand found your breasts ,thumb brushing your nipple until your back arched like a string had snapped inside you.

“This tent is too damn small-” he grunted.

You barely got the words out: “Then let me ride you.”

That flipped a switch.

In one slick, filthy motion, he rolled and pulled you onto him, guiding your hips like he was building a symphony from chaos.

You settled over him, breath caught in your throat as his piercing brushed that sweet, unbearable spot deep inside you.

“Please guide me,” you whispered, already shaking.

His eyes were black with hunger as he took your hips in both hands and slammed you down, making you cry out.

“Always, baby. I got you.”

And he did. Every bounce. Every drag. Every time your thighs quivered and your moans turned breathless, he was right there, helping you fall apart and loving every second.

“You’re a fuckin’ angel, Peach,” he said through gritted teeth, voice rumbling against your ribs like thunder. “So pretty, so loud for me-keep goin’, I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak.

You just moved.

Riding that high with his fingers digging in, his mouth back on your throat, his breath hot against your shoulder, whispering filth you didn’t have the brain cells left to process.

Until it hit.

That snap. That white-hot, stars-exploding, everything-blurring release.

You collapsed against him, shaking, babbling something like his name and a curse and maybe a love confession.

And Erik-sweaty, gorgeous, wrecked,wrapped his arms around you like you were made of glass and buried his face in your neck as he followed, cursing against your skin.

Silence.

Then:

“I think I saw God,” you mumbled.

Erik laughed,that deep, post-orgasmic wheeze of a man who knows he did that.

“If God’s in this tent, we’re both going to hell.”

You didn’t care.

You were in his lap. Still full of him. And the world could wait.

Because for once, you didn’t feel broken.

You just felt his.

You woke up to the smell of sweat, sex, and the faint scent of Julia’s anxiety coffee wafting in from outside the tent.

Your legs were jelly. Your throat was wrecked. Your body?

Fully used. Thoroughly destroyed. Proudly ruined.

You shifted slightly and winced.

“Fuck,” you muttered, flopping back onto the sleeping bag like your bones were made of mashed potatoes. “He actually broke me.”

A voice, dangerously smug, purred beside you:

“That’s what happens when you tell me to go crazy, sweetheart.”

You whipped your head toward Erik, who was lying on his side like a smug little slut .Bedhead. Hickey-covered chest. That damn piercing catching the light. Still naked.

And grinning like the devil just gave him a participation trophy .

“I should slap you.”

He reached over and trailed his fingers down your bare stomach. “You did. Repeatedly. Pretty sure you left claw marks on my back too.”

You flushed.

“…You deserved them.”

“You moaned my name like a prayer and then cried after the third—”

“ERIK.”

He smirked. “You started it, Peach.”

You groaned and shoved your face into the hoodie he’d thrown over you sometime during the night. It still smelled like him. Sin. Laundry soap. Regret. Lust. Possibly weed.

Then, the sound that could strike fear into your horny little heart:

“I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE, SLUTS!”

Julia.

“IF THAT TENT SMELLS LIKE REGRET AND CUM, I’M BURNING IT.”

You choked on your own oxygen.

Erik grinned. “She’s so supportive.”

You shoved his face into a pillow.

Outside, Julia continued:

“I BOUGHT DONUTS AND THREE TYPES OF GATORADE. BUT NO ONE GETS ANY UNTIL I GET DETAILS. AND YES, I’M YELLING. BECAUSE YOU BUTT DIALED ME AGAIN AND I HEARD EVERYTHING.”

You buried yourself deeper in the hoodie. “I’m never showing my face again.”

Erik sat up and stretched,like a cat who just knocked everything off your emotional shelf.

“You sure you’re gonna be able to walk?”

You glared at him. “If I limp, I’m telling everyone you punched me.”

“You screamed my name loud enough, babe. No one’s gonna believe that.”

You threw a boot at his head.

You eventually emerged wearing his hoodie (because yours had mysteriously vanished), his hickeys, and the haunting realization that your knees were still shaking.

Julia handed you a donut and a coffee with a grin.

“You got railed so hard the rats left the campsite out of respect.”

Erik, unbothered and half-dressed, just sipped his Gatorade like a post-sex Olympic gold medalist.

Brad and TikTok Barbie walked past at the worst possible moment.

You locked eyes with your ex.

Erik stood, walked over, and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind like he had every right to. And he did.

“Morning, Brad,” he said cheerfully. “Peach couldn’t walk this morning. I take full responsibility.”

You blinked.

Barbie gasped.

Brad’s jaw clenched so hard it could’ve snapped.

Julia whispered, “Ten outta ten. Emmy-worthy.”

You turned, grabbed Erik by the shirt, and pulled him down for a kiss that was all tongue, bite, and I dare you to look away.

When you pulled back, Erik looked dazed.

“I’m keeping you,” he muttered.

“You better,” you whispered, voice low.

Brad stormed off.

Julia did a backflip emotionally.

And you? You leaned into Erik, bruised and aching and alive in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

“Same tent tonight?” he asked, voice in your ear, already smug again.

You grinned.

“Only if you promise to break me again.”

#erik campbell #erik campbell fanfiction #erik campbell final destination #final destination #erik campbell x reader #final destination bloodlines #final destination au #Spotify

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shiftthemoon · 6 months ago

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THINGS YOUR DRS REMIND ME OF ✷ sunlight, or moonlight?

✺ TABLE OF CONTENTS :

harry potter dr. fantastic beasts dr. percy jackson dr. fame dr. mermaid dr. f1 driver dr. httyd dr. game of thrones dr. hunger games dr. marvel dr. spider-man + spiderverse dr. marauders era dr. arcane dr. vampire dr. pirate dr.

psssst!!! post's layout was ib hrrtshape!! my fav mootie ever,, ♡

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ harry potter dr.

your hogwarts reality feels like rainy afternoons, where clouds cling to the sky like an unspoken promise. it’s libraries that smell of leather and parchment, the kind where you breathe in and suddenly remember things you’ve never lived.

• it reminds me of the soft hum of the cranberries’ “dreams” or the low ache in radiohead’s “exit music (for a film).”

• it feels like the gothic spires of edinburgh, dark green scarves blowing in the wind, and the cold stone streets of york.

• movies like dead poets society and stardust carry the same weight, that blend of whimsy and melancholy, where magic isn’t just magic—it’s rebellion, it’s survival.

• this dr smells like earl grey tea, sharp with bergamot, and the flickering glow of a candle dripping wax onto an old oak desk. it’s virgo sun with scorpio moon energy: structured, mysterious, aching with purpose.

• autumn is your season—cool winds, warm fires, and leaves crackling underfoot.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fantastic beasts & where to find them dr.

this dr is gold filigree and vintage maps, the kind you get lost in, only to discover yourself in the borders. it’s the delicate art of understanding things bigger than you—creatures, love, alchemy.

• it’s the nostalgic drawl of jeff buckley’s “hallelujah” or fleetwood mac’s “the chain,” songs that sound like they were written by ancient souls.

• feels like london, fog rolling off the thames at dawn, or somewhere quieter, like oxford or canterbury, where history whispers to you in cobblestone cracks.

• watch the theory of everything or midnight in paris, for that subtle sense of chasing something you’ll never quite touch but will die trying to understand.

• it smells like leather gloves and ink-stained fingers. it feels like cancer venus — taurus mars — gemini mercury energy: tender, protective, but a little guarded.

• winter. always winter. the kind of cold that bites, but you endure it because it reminds you you’re alive.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ percy jackson dr.

camp half-blood hums like cicadas at twilight, drenched in summer heat and the salt of the sea. it’s friendship forged in battle, love found between cracks in the earth.

• this dr is nirvana’s “come as you are” and smashing pumpkins’ “1979.” chaotic, nostalgic, but alive.

• it’s greece in all its ancient glory—the ruins of delphi, the waves crashing at the cliffs of santorini. but it’s also the rugged coastlines of california, where myths could hide in the spray of the pacific.

• the movies the perks of being a wallflower and the goonies echo this vibe: coming-of-age stories tied with adventure and heartache.

• it’s that faint copper smell of blood and the earthy scent of olive trees. sagittarius rising — aquarius mercury — aries mars energy: reckless, bold, chasing freedom with no map in hand.

• summer. long days, wild nights, golden sunsets.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fame dr.

this dr is glitter in your veins, like electricity is the only thing keeping you moving. it’s the hum of the spotlight, the chaos of dreams colliding with reality.

• this one is björk’s “human behaviour” and radiohead’s “high and dry.” a little experimental, a little tragic, but undeniably iconic.

• it’s new york city, obviously—broadway lights cutting through the smoke, or maybe los angeles, a city burning with ambition.

• black swan and whiplash—these movies carry the same brutal hunger, the obsession that eats you alive but makes it all worth it.

• it smells like sweat and perfume and cigarette smoke, all blending together under flashing lights. aries moon — leo sun — gemini venus energy: fiery, intense, unapologetically raw.

• spring—the season of beginnings, of things growing, of chasing what could be.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ mermaid dr.

this dr feels like the ocean’s lullaby, where the waves carry secrets and the moon pulls your heart like a tide. it’s otherworldly and yet familiar, like a dream you wake up from, still tasting salt on your lips.

• it sounds like enya’s “sail away” or the cure’s “lullaby.” haunting, ethereal, but grounding.

• the turquoise waters of the maldives, or the dark, stormy coasts of cornwall, where cliffs meet an endless horizon.

• the shape of water and ponyo—love stories where the sea breathes life into forgotten places.

• it’s the smell of saltwater and seaweed, the sting of ocean spray against your cheeks. pisces sun & neptune — taurus moon energy: dreamy, fluid, a little lost but beautifully so.

• late summer, early autumn—those blurry in-between days when the air holds onto its warmth just a little longer.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ f1 driver dr.

your f1 dr feels like adrenaline in your veins, the roar of engines, and the wind whipping against your face. it’s speed, competition, but also the camaraderie of shared obsession.

• it sounds like oasis’ “champagne supernova” and the killers’ “all these things that i’ve done.” songs that echo triumph, heartbreak, and everything in between.

• monaco glitters in this dr: yachts anchored in the harbor, the narrow streets drenched in sunlight. but it’s also the neon-soaked nights of singapore and the deserts of bahrain, where the air hums with tension.

• movies like rush and ford v ferrari capture the heart of this dr—rivalries, passion, and the pursuit of perfection.

• it smells like burnt rubber, sweat, and the metallic tang of engines. aries sun — capricorn mars — aquarius uranus energy: fiercely competitive, always chasing the next thrill.

• summer, specifically those late august days when the air is electric with possibility.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ how to train your dragon dr.

your how to train your dragon dr is wind-tossed hair, wild laughter, and the freedom of flying. it’s the untamed beauty of a world that doesn’t quite exist but should.

• it’s muse’s “starlight” and florence + the machine’s “dog days are over.” songs that feel like they could lift you into the clouds.

• it smells like the briny ocean, dragon scales warmed by the sun, and the smoky scent of campfires.

• the cliffs and fjords of norway, the volcanic shores of iceland—this dr is rugged and alive, filled with places where magic hides in the landscape.

• movies like spirit: stallion of the cimarron and brave echo this vibe: freedom, connection, and the push against expectations.

• it feels like sagittarius moon & jupiter — aquarius moon energy: wild-hearted, always exploring, always yearning for more.

• spring, where the world blooms and feels untamed, uncharted, and full of life.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ game of thrones dr.

your game of thrones dr is fire and ice, betrayal and loyalty, the sharp edge of power balanced with the fragility of hope. it’s a world where survival is its own form of poetry.

• it’s joy division’s “atmosphere” and led zeppelin’s “stairway to heaven.” haunting and raw, filled with the weight of kingdoms rising and falling.

• the ancient castles of scotland, the desolate beauty of the sahara, the twisting streets of dubrovnik—places where history feels alive, where whispers of power still linger.

• movies like gladiator and kingdom of heaven hold the same pulse: grand, epic, and dripping in drama.

• it smells like blood, snow, and the faint sweetness of wine. scorpio rising — capricorn mars & mercury energy: intense, strategic, magnetic, but dangerous if crossed.

• winter—long, harsh, and unforgiving, yet filled with moments of beauty that steal your breath.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ hunger games dr.

your hunger games dr is survival carved into your bones, rebellion written in the ashes of the world. it’s the quiet rage of the oppressed turned into a wildfire.

• it’s nine inch nails’ “hurt” and linkin park’s “in the end.” desperate, raw, and relentless, but with a thread of hope.

• the forests of appalachia, the industrial grit of detroit, the sprawling deserts of utah—it’s a patchwork of places where survival feels elemental.

• movies like children of men and the road share this dr’s heart: bleak and brutal, but deeply human.

• it smells like damp earth, gunpowder, and the acrid scent of fire. capricorn mars — virgo venus — leo rising energy: unrelenting, ambitious, and forged in hardship.

• autumn, when the air turns cold, and the trees burn with color, reminding you that beauty exists even in endings.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marvel dr.

your marvel dr is the blur of action and humanity, larger-than-life stakes grounded in the intimacy of love, loss, and choice. it’s heroes who bleed and villains who cry.

• it’s u2’s “with or without you” and audioslave’s “like a stone.” powerful, aching, and utterly cinematic.

• new york city pulses through this dr: the skyline glowing at night, the chaos of people, the hidden corners where stories unfold.

• movies like the dark knight and logan carry the same weight: gritty, emotional, and built on moral gray areas.

• it smells like leather jackets, rain-slick streets, and the metallic tang of battle. aquarius sun — leo mars — gemini moon energy: visionary, a little distant, always fighting for the greater good.

• spring and fall—transitional seasons that feel like the calm before and after the storm.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ spider-man + spiderverse dr.

your spiderverse dr feels like swinging between skyscrapers, the air electric with possibility and purpose. it’s chaos and connection, a kaleidoscope of choices and the weight of responsibility.

• it’s the strokes’ “reptilia” and gorillaz’s “feel good inc.”—gritty, pulsing, and full of edge.

• the streets of brooklyn, the neon haze of tokyo, or the rooftops of chicago, where the city is a character all its own.

• movies like blade runner 2049 and tron: legacy carry this vibe: sleek, emotional, and larger than life.

• it smells like rain on pavement, fresh paint on a graffiti wall, and the ozone tang of lightning. aquarius mercury — gemini mars — libra moon energy: inventive, unconventional, and sharp-witted.

• spring—when the world starts to bloom again, full of fresh starts and untold stories.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marauders era dr.

your marauders dr is all late-night laughter and whispered secrets, rebellion scrawled in ink and moonlight. it’s the ache of youth, of moments that feel infinite but are fleeting.

• it’s pink floyd’s “wish you were here” and fleetwood mac’s “rhiannon.” bittersweet, timeless, full of soul.

• feels like the hidden alleys of london, the rolling hills of wales, or the misty forests of the scottish highlands.

• movies like the breakfast club and dead poets society carry this dr’s energy—complicated friendships, rebellion, and nostalgia for a time that might not have been perfect but was yours.

• it smells like old books, cigarette smoke, and the faint sweetness of butterbeer. libra moon — cancer sun — pisces venus energy: romantic, thoughtful, and deeply tied to relationships.

• autumn, when the world feels crisp, nostalgic, and alive with change.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ arcane dr.

your arcane dr is a masterpiece of contradictions—gritty streets juxtaposed with glittering innovation. it’s a world of broken dreams and endless ambition.

• it’s placebo’s “every you every me” and radiohead’s “no surprises.” raw, haunting, and brimming with unspoken emotion.

• zaun is the heart of this dr: neon lights cutting through the smoke, the underbelly of progress. piltover looms above, all gold and power.

• movies like v for vendetta and ghost in the shell share this vibe: revolutionary, futuristic, and deeply human.

• it smells like oil, soot, and metallic sparks. pluto & mars in aquarius — scorpio moon energy: transformative, innovative, and unapologetically intense.

• winter—the cold amplifies the tension, the longing for warmth, the fight for survival.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ vampire dr.

your vampire dr is velvet and shadows, the allure of eternity balanced with the weight of it. it’s beauty that bites, darkness that whispers, and immortality that aches.

• it’s bauhaus’ “bela lugosi’s dead” and depeche mode’s “enjoy the silence.” moody, sensual, and timeless.

• feels like prague at midnight, the foggy streets of victorian london, or the endless forests of transylvania.

• movies like interview with the vampire and crimson peak embody this dr—hauntingly beautiful, filled with danger and longing.

• it smells like old wine, wax-dripping candles, and the iron tang of blood. scorpio sun — libra venus — pisces mercury energy: intense, magnetic, and deeply tied to the unseen.

• late autumn, when the world is cold and still, and the nights stretch on forever.

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ pirate dr.

your pirate dr is salt spray in your hair, the endless expanse of the horizon, and the reckless freedom of a life untethered. it’s treasure maps and tempestuous seas, loyalty forged in fire.

• it’s the rolling stones’ “paint it black” and led zeppelin’s “immigrant song.” wild, untamed, and unapologetic.

• the caribbean islands, the rocky cliffs of ireland, or the misty coasts of the azores—where the ocean feels infinite and alive.

• movies like pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl and master and commander echo this dr: swashbuckling adventure, grit, and loyalty.

• it smells like saltwater, rum, and the wood of a well-worn ship. sagittarius mars — pisces rising — aries sun energy: adventurous, daring, and always chasing the next horizon.

• summer, especially in the golden haze of dusk, when the ocean glows like molten gold.

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hoodedjelly · 24 days ago

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champions for battle resort or whatever it's called i forgor

oooo watch bfcr oooo watch bfcr

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yoshipupz · 1 month ago

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SELFSHIP!!!!!!!!!! ART!!!!!!

andd a nighttime version its slighty different

yayayayayayayaaaaaa selfship art!!!!!!!!!!!!

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mysteryshoptls · 2 months ago

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SSR Epel Felmier - Room Relaxation Voice Lines

Jus' watch me! I'ma be even cooler 'n bigger by this time next year!

Summon: I'm still nowhere near the beefy bod I want. I'm gonna chow down on all the BBQ and food at my birthday party!

Groovification: 'M sleepier'n all geddup 'cause I stayed up late... But that just means I'm really looking forward to my birthday, right?

Home: Once everyone's asleep, that's when the fun begins.

Swap Looks: Yaaawn... Tch, 'm still sleepy.

Home Transition 1: There's so many kinds of brushes, but I don't really know the difference between 'em. I never really used them anyway, so I don't really see a need for 'em.

Home Transition 2: Ace-kun bought me some juice. We were playin' rock-paper-scissors, bettin' with a present on the line and I won, so!

Home Transition 3: My dormmates asked me what I often liked to eat. I told 'em apples, and everyone all went out and bought some. As they should, apples're delicious!

Home Transition - Login: At least on my birthday, I'd like to throw on a leather jacket, wear some rad makeup and just rock that wild look. Next year, definitely...!

Home Transition - Groovy: I almost talked Idia-san's ear off 'bout how awesome BBQ is. I was able to somehow brush it off as if it was nothing, so whew.

Home Tap 1: Everyone says that staying up late is bad for your skin, but I've never had any issues with bad skin. It's probably just an old wives tale!

Home Tap 2: I was talking about my birthday party when I noticed Malleus-san staring at me. That startled me. I wonder, should I have invited him to it?

Home Tap 3: I definitely make sure to use those scented fragrances whenever I get gifted any. 'Cause I can just spray a little after snacking on some sweets to cover up the smell.

Home Tap 4: Silver-san said he'd teach me some martial arts as his present. That might bring me one step closer to my ideal self!

Home Tap 5: I thought this cardigan might look a little too cute... But since Meemaw knitted this for me, I've been makin' sure to take good care of it.

Home Tap - Groovy: Maan, I thought I'd be sproutin' a beard by the time this birthday came 'round. ...Hey, don't be laughing at me!

Duo: [EPEL]: Hm, Idia-san, what're you trying to say? [IDIA]: E-E-Epel-shi, h-h-hbd...

Birthday Login Message: Thanks for coming to celebrate my birthday! I'll take good care of the present you gave me. Huh, I smell like smoke? Maybe it's 'cause me and the Spelldrive Club were doin' a BBQ as an after-scrimmage party. Ruggie-san'll basically eat anything and everything, while Leona-san and the other guys were chowin' down on the meat... It kinda turned into a huge battle for everything, but 'cause I gave it my all to grab what I wanted too, I got to eat a ton! That was so good! Ah... Don't tell Vil-san what I just told you, okay? Thanks. I really got to have a great birthday 'cause of that.

Requested by Anonymous.

#twisted wonderland #twst #epel felmier #idia shroud #twst epel #twst idia #twst translation #mention: ace #mention: idia #mention: malleus #mention: silver #mention: marja #mention: ruggie #mention: leona #mention: vil

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tf2-plus2 · 2 years ago

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While I work on finishing at least one of the lore posts before I go to bed because my brain has not wanted to brain today...

Have the original art for Retriever and Assassin (Assassin was actually done first!) Also Wally the good Dutch Shepherd in color! The lineart for these were originally posted on my main @cherry-blxssxm-chaos , and I think I posted Assassin's colored art there too? Either way, finished these in time for me to be redoing them relatively soon so- hah!

#announcer speaks (ooc)#team fortress 2 ocs #tf2 ocs #battle spray (art)#Smoke and Knives (Assassin)#Paint n Pickup (Retriever)#Good Boy! (Wally)

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wonyowonyo · 2 months ago

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Rulebreaker's Rush (P. Chaeyoung / Rosé X M! Reader)

Wc: 7.5k

Y/N, a rebellious running back who breaks rules, gets shy and flees when caught by Rosé, the strict student council president. Their lively clashes ignite a romance, urging Y/N to face his feelings and stop running from love.

A/N: Back to back drops baby, emptying my long overdue unfinished stuffs one by one so tune in for more, as always hope yall enjoyed this one!

The Deimon High sports field pulsed with the raw energy of the Deimon Devil Bats’ afternoon practice. The sun dipped low, casting golden streaks across the grass, while the air crackled with grunts, shouts, and the sharp thud of pads colliding. At the heart of the chaos was Y/N, the team’s elusive running back, weaving through a gauntlet of tackling dummies with the grace of a shonen protagonist dodging a villain’s strike. His legs blurred, his eyes gleamed with focus, and his movements screamed speed.

“Y/N! Stop daydreaming and hit those dummies harder!”

Hyem’s voice sliced through the noise, sharp as a blade. The demonic quarterback stood on the sidelines, his hair catching the light, twirling a rifle like it was a toy. A burst of gunfire—blanks, mercifully—punctuated his words, making the team flinch. “You wanna be benched for the next game, ya lousy punk?!”

“N-No way, Captain!” Y/N stammered, slamming into a dummy with enough force to make it groan. Sweat dripped down his forehead, but he flashed a cheeky grin. Surviving Hyem’s reign of terror required two rules: never show weakness, and never get caught breaking the rules. Y/N was a master at the first and an artist at the second.

His mind, though, wasn’t fully on football. Hidden in his gym bag, buried under a pile of sweaty towels, was his latest contraband: a stack of limited-edition Shonen Jump manga, banned on campus for “distracting students from academic excellence.” He’d smuggled them in during lunch, slipping through the crowded halls like a running back dodging tacklers, all while evading the student council’s patrols. Those rule-enforcers were relentless, led by the most terrifying of them all: Roseanne Park or Rosé for short, the student council president, known as the Iron Lady. Poised, sharp-tongued, with a glare that could make a delinquent confess on the spot, she was a legend. Rumor had it she’d once caught a kid with gum and made him write a 500-word essay on oral hygiene. Gum.

Y/N shuddered, adjusting his helmet. Rosé wouldn’t catch him. He was too fast, too clever. As practice wound down, Hyem barked an order for sprints, and Y/N took off, the wind whistling past his ears. His teammates lagged behind, panting, while he crossed the finish line, chest heaving, grinning like he’d just pulled off a heist. Which, in a way, he had.

The locker room reeked of sweat, cheap body spray, and the faint glow of victory. Y/N slumped onto a bench, peeling off his pads, his gym bag at his feet. The other Devil Bats were either showering or bickering over who’d landed the most tackles, leaving him a rare pocket of quiet. Perfect. Time to check the goods.

With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, he unzipped his bag. There they were: three pristine Shonen Jump issues, their covers bursting with colorful heroes and villains. His heart gave a little leap—these were the special editions with bonus art, the kind kids on X were begging to trade for. He’d risked detention for these, and it was worth every second. He could already picture himself sprawled in his dorm, flipping through epic battles while munching on smuggled Pocky. Life didn’t get sweeter.

“Nice work today, Y/N!” Aye, his loudmouth best friend, bounded over, his monkey-like grin wide enough to split his face. “You were zippin’ past those dummies like MAX SPEED, yo!” He mimed Y/N’s run, flailing his arms like a windmill.

“Keep it down, Aye,” Y/N hissed, shoving the manga deeper into his bag. “I’m trying to stay low-key here.”

“Low-key? You?” Aye’s cackle echoed off the lockers. “You’re about as subtle as Hyem’s gunfire, man!”

Y/N opened his mouth to retort, but a voice cut through the locker room like a katana through bamboo.

“Y/N.”

His heart stopped. That voice—crisp, commanding, with a faint Australian lilt—was unmistakable. He turned, slow as a horror movie victim, and there she was: Rosé Park, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, her student council armband glinting like a badge of judgment. Her long, honey-blonde hair was tied back, and her dark eyes pinned Y/N like a butterfly to a board. Her uniform—blazer, skirt, tie—looked like it belonged on a general, not a high schooler.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked, her tone calm but laced with the promise of trouble.

Y/N’s mouth went dry. His brain screamed, Run! but his body froze, clutching the bag like a lifeline. “N-Nothing, Prez!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “Just, uh, gym stuff! Sweaty towels! You don’t wanna see that!”

Rosé’s eyebrow arched, a single, devastating move that said she saw through his lie like it was tissue paper. She took a step forward, and the air seemed to chill. “Hand it over,” she said, extending a hand. “Now.”

Y/N didn’t think. He ran.

His legs sprang into action, bag slung over his shoulder, as he bolted out of the locker room. Manga pages fluttered behind him, spilling like incriminating confetti. Rosé’s voice rang out—“Y/N, stop!”—but he was already halfway down the hall, his football reflexes kicking into overdrive. This wasn’t just a chase; it was a game, and he was the running back, weaving through the defense.

The school’s halls were a labyrinth of lockers, posters, and wide-eyed students. Y/N vaulted over a stray backpack, slid under a teacher’s rolling cart, and juked past a cluster of freshmen like they were linebackers. His heart pounded, not just from the sprint but from the thrill. He was untouchable, unstoppable, the fastest kid at Deimon High—

“Y/N, you’re only making this worse!” Rosé’s voice was closer now, far too close. He risked a glance back and nearly tripped. She was running, her skirt swishing like a cape, her face a mix of determination and exasperation. How was she so fast?! She wasn’t even sweating, her steps precise, like she’d mapped out his every dodge.

Students lined the halls, cheering like they were at a sports match. “Go, Y/N!” a kid shouted. “Bust him, Prez!” another countered. Y/N gritted his teeth, pushing harder. No way was he getting caught. Not today.

He rounded a corner, the courtyard in sight. Freedom! He could lose her in the open, maybe hide in the gardening club’s shed. His legs burned, but he grinned, picturing the manga safe, Rosé left in the dust.

A stray Shonen Jump slipped from his bag, flapping to the ground. Rosé’s foot pinned it before he could blink.

“Got you,” she said, not even out of breath.

Y/N didn’t wait for the lecture. With a desperate lunge, he dove through a side door, tumbling into a storage closet. The door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness. He crouched among brooms and buckets, heart hammering, trying not to wheeze. The bag was still with him, thank the stars, but one manga was gone. A small price for freedom.

Outside, Rosé’s footsteps paused. Y/N held his breath, praying she’d move on.

Her voice came through the door, low and almost… amused? “You can’t run forever, Y/N. Why do you always make this so difficult?” A pause, then, quieter, like she was speaking to herself: “He’s… kind of impressive, though. That speed.”

Y/N’s brain short-circuited. Impressive? Rosé Park, the Iron Lady, had just complimented him? His face burned, and he pressed his hands to his cheeks, trying to process. Was she toying with him? Or… did she actually notice him? Like, notice notice him? His heart did a weird flip, and for a moment, he forgot he was a fugitive.

Then his foot nudged a mop. It clattered to the floor with a deafening CRASH.

The door flew open, and there was Rosé, silhouetted against the hallway light like an avenging angel. Y/N yelped, scrambling back, but there was nowhere to go. She stepped inside, arms crossed, her expression a blend of annoyance and something softer, harder to read.

“Y/N,” she sighed, shaking her head. “You’re a menace.” She picked up the fallen manga, flipping through it with a frown. “This is what you risked detention for? A comic book?”

“It’s not just a comic book!” Y/N blurted, then clamped his mouth shut. Great, now he sounded like a nerd. “I mean… uh…”

Rosé’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “I should confiscate this and write you up.” She paused, her eyes meeting his. “But I’ll let you off. This time. Don’t test me again.”

Y/N nodded so fast he might’ve given himself whiplash. “Y-Yes, Prez! Won’t happen again! Promise!”

She rolled her eyes, tossing the manga back to him. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Y/N stumbled back to the field, legs wobbly, clutching his bag like it was his last shred of dignity. Practice was wrapping up, the team stretching under Hyem’s predatory gaze. He tried to blend in, but his brain was a whirlwind. Rosé had let him go. She’d called him impressive. And that almost-smile? It was seared into his memory like a manga panel.

“Oi, Y/N!” Hyem’s voice snapped him out of it. The quarterback leaned against a goalpost, flipping through a notebook labeled “Blackmail Material” in his jagged scrawl. “What’s with the dumb look? Got a crush on the student council prez or somethin’?”

Y/N’s face went nuclear. “W-What?! No! Shut up, Captain!” He flailed, which only made it worse.

Aye, stretching nearby, perked up like a dog hearing a treat bag. “YO! Y/N’s in loooove?!” He struck a dramatic pose, pointing at Y/N. “The speedy delinquent and the Iron Lady! MAX ROMANCE!”

“Knock it off!” Y/N hissed, tackling Aye into the grass. Aye cackled, flopping like a fish, while Hyem’s laugh echoed like a villain’s. The rest of the team started chanting “Y/N and Rosé!” until Y/N wanted to dig a hole and disappear.

As he trudged to the showers, manga safe but his pride in tatters, Y/N couldn’t shake Rosé’s words. Kind of impressive. He glanced at the Shonen Jump in his bag, its cover hero grinning defiantly. Maybe, just maybe, he could impress her again—without breaking the rules. Or at least, without getting caught.

That night, in his dorm, Y/N sprawled on his bed, staring at a Shonen Jump cover. Rosé’s warning echoed in his head, but it felt less like a threat and more like a challenge. He grinned, heart racing. Game on, Prez.

The Deimon High cafeteria buzzed with the midday chaos of hungry teens, a battlefield of clattering trays, shouted orders, and the faint smell of overcooked rice. Y/N slouched at a corner table, his gym bag tucked under his seat, still buzzing from his close call with Rosé Park a few days ago. The memory of her almost-smile—and that “kind of impressive” comment—had been looping in his head like a catchy anime opening. He hadn’t dared smuggle manga since, but the itch to break rules was like a mosquito bite he couldn’t stop scratching. And today, he had a new plan. A big one.

“Yo, Y/N, you sure about this?” Aye whispered, leaning across the table, his monkey-like grin equal parts excitement and nerves. His hair bobbed as he glanced around, like they were plotting a bank heist instead of a lunch prank. “If the Iron Lady catches us, we’re toast!”

“Relax, Aye,” Y/N said, flashing a cocky grin that didn’t quite mask his own jitters. “Rosé’s stuck in a student council meeting. I checked the schedule. We’re golden.” He patted the bag under the table, where a contraband hot plate and two packs of instant ramen—spicy shrimp flavor, the good stuff—lay hidden. The school’s “no outside food” rule was strict, but Y/N wasn’t about to survive on soggy cafeteria katsu forever. This was rebellion. This was freedom.

Aye’s eyes sparkled with admiration. “MAX GUTS, man! Cooking ramen right under their noses? You’re a legend!” He mimed slurping noodles, complete with exaggerated sound effects. “Slrrrp! This is gonna be the ultimate lunch revolution!”

Y/N chuckled, but his stomach twisted. Rosé’s warning still echoed: Don’t test me again. He shook it off, picturing her in some stuffy meeting, far from the cafeteria. No way she’d catch him this time. He was Y/N, the Devil Bats’ fastest running back, master of dodging both tacklers and trouble. Right?

Unbeknownst to him, a snitchy freshman had overheard their plan and slipped a note to the student council. And Rosé Park, never one to miss a beat, was already on her way.

The plan was simple: plug in the hot plate under the table, boil water, cook the ramen, and scarf it down before anyone noticed. Y/N had practiced the setup in his dorm, timing it like a football play. But, as anyone knows, no plan survives contact with the enemy—or a faulty hot plate.

He and Aye hunched over the table, shielding the hot plate with their trays. Y/N plugged it in, the faint hum blending with the cafeteria din. The water started to bubble, and the spicy shrimp aroma wafted up, making his mouth water. “Almost there,” he whispered, tossing in the noodles. Aye was practically vibrating, clutching a pair of chopsticks like they were a sacred relic.

Then the hot plate sparked. A tiny, angry pop of electricity, followed by a puff of smoke. Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh, crap—”

The hot plate shorted out with a loud BZZT, sending the pot of half-cooked ramen flying. Noodles splattered across the table, broth splashed onto Aye’s shirt, and the spicy scent exploded into the air. The cafeteria went silent for a split second, every head turning to their table. Then chaos erupted.

“FOOD FIGHT!” some genius yelled, and the room descended into madness. Rice balls soared like missiles, juice cartons burst midair, and a stray bread roll clocked a kid in the forehead. Y/N ducked a flying onigiri, grabbing his bag and hissing, “Aye, we gotta go!”

But before he could bolt, a voice cut through the pandemonium like a referee’s whistle.

“Y/N!”

His heart plummeted. There, striding through the chaos like a shonen hero stepping onto a battlefield, was Rosé Park. Her student council armband gleamed, her honey-blonde hair swayed, and her dark eyes zeroed in on him with laser precision. She didn’t even flinch as a stray dumpling sailed past her head. “Really, Y/N?” she said, her Australian lilt sharp with exasperation. “Again?”

Y/N’s bravado melted like ice cream in a microwave. His face burned, and he stammered, “P-Prez! I-I can explain!” But his legs had other ideas. He snatched his bag and sprinted, weaving through the food-flinging mob, Rosé hot on his heels.

The cafeteria was a war zone, but Y/N was in his element—dodging, ducking, and diving like he was on the football field. He leaped over a toppled chair, slid past a kid wielding a tray of mashed potatoes, and nearly made it to the exit. Nearly.

The crowd surged, pushing him back, and he collided with something solid. Not a table. Not a wall. Rosé. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with a grip that was somehow both firm and gentle. “Not this time, Y/N,” she said, her voice low, her eyes glinting with a mix of annoyance and—amusement?

Y/N’s brain short-circuited. They were pressed close in the chaotic crowd, her face inches from his, her faint lavender scent cutting through the ramen fumes. His heart jackhammered, and his cheeks went nuclear. “I-I’m sorry, Prez!” he blurted, his voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. “It was just ramen! I swear!”

Rosé’s lips twitched, a smirk breaking through her stern facade. “You’re faster on the field than you are at escaping me,” she teased, her Aussie accent curling around the words. Y/N’s knees wobbled. Was she flirting? No, no way, she was the Iron Lady, she didn’t flirt, she—

“GET A ROOM, YA IDIOTS!” Hyem’s voice boomed from across the cafeteria. The quarterback stood on a table, cackling, a soda can in hand like a grenade. He lobbed it, and Y/N ducked, pulling Rosé down with him. The can sailed over their heads, exploding against a wall in a fizzy spray.

Rosé sighed, releasing his wrist. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, but there was a spark in her eyes, like she was enjoying the chaos just a little.

The food fight ended with a teacher’s megaphone and a lot of detention slips. Y/N, as the apparent instigator, got the worst of it: cleaning the entire cafeteria, alone, under Rosé’s supervision. He stood in the now-empty room, mop in hand, grumbling as he scrubbed broth stains off a table. His gym bag, miraculously noodle-free, sat nearby, a reminder of his failed rebellion.

Rosé leaned against a wall, arms crossed, her blazer slightly rumpled from the chaos. “You know, Y/N,” she said, her tone dry, “if you put half as much effort into following rules as you do breaking them, you’d be unstoppable.”

Y/N snorted, glancing at her. “Rules are boring, Prez. Where’s the fun in that?” He expected a lecture, but Rosé just shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She grabbed a rag and started wiping down a table nearby, her movements precise but relaxed.

He blinked. “You’re… helping? Isn’t that, like, beneath the Iron Lady?”

She shot him a look, half-annoyed, half-playful. “Someone has to make sure you don’t slack off. And don’t call me that.” But her cheeks pinked slightly, and Y/N’s stomach did a weird flip. They worked in silence for a bit, the only sounds the squeak of the mop and the distant hum of the school.

Then he heard it—Rosé, humming softly. It was faint, but unmistakable: the opening theme to Hunter x Hunter, one of his favorite anime. His jaw dropped. “No way,” he blurted. “You watch that?!”

Rosé froze, her rag mid-swipe, her face flushing. “What? I—Focus on cleaning!” she snapped, but her voice was flustered, and she turned away, scrubbing the table with unnecessary vigor.

Y/N grinned, his shyness melting into mischief. “Didn’t peg you for an anime fan, Prez. Got any other secrets? You cosplay on weekends or something?”

“Shut up, Y/N,” she growled, but there was no real heat in it. She flicked a bit of water at him, and he laughed, dodging like it was a tackle. For a moment, the cafeteria didn’t feel like a punishment—it felt like… something else.

By the time they finished, the cafeteria gleamed, and Y/N’s arms ached. He slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to bolt, when Rosé stopped him. “Not so fast,” she said, holding out a clipboard. “You’re assisting the student council at the next football game. Crowd control, setup, that sort of thing. Consider it part of your punishment.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “What?! The game? But I’m playing in it!” The thought of Rosé watching his every move—on and off the field—made his stomach lurch. Part panic, part… excitement?

Rosé’s eyes narrowed, but there was a teasing edge to her voice. “Then you’d better behave, or I’ll bench you myself.” She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “And Y/N? No more ramen stunts.”

He nodded dumbly, watching her go, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. As soon as she was out of sight, Aye pounced, materializing like a ninja. “YO! You and the Prez were totally vibin’ in there! MAX CHEMISTRY!”

“Shut up, Aye!” Y/N hissed, shoving him. But Hyem’s cackle echoed from the hall, where the quarterback lounged, flipping through his blackmail notebook. “Heh, looks like our speedy punk’s got a new play: wooing the Iron Lady. Need some pointers, kid?”

Y/N’s face burned as he stormed off, Aye’s laughter chasing him. But deep down, he couldn’t stop replaying Rosé’s hum, her smirk, the way she’d helped him clean. Maybe this game day duty wouldn’t be so bad.

That night, Y/N practiced late on the field, running drills under the floodlights. He fumbled a catch, groaning as Rosé’s face flashed in his mind. How was he supposed to focus with her watching him? He glanced at the stands, half-expecting to see her there, and his heart skipped. Game day was gonna be a whole new kind of challenge.

The Deimon High stadium buzzed with pre-game energy, a cauldron of cheering students, blaring horns, and the sharp scent of popcorn and grass. The Deimon Devil Bats were set to face the Ojo White Knights, a rival team with a defense like a steel wall. Y/N stood in the locker room, lacing his cleats, his heart pounding with the familiar thrill of game day. As the team’s star running back, he lived for these moments—dodging tacklers, sprinting for the end zone, the crowd roaring his name. But today, his mind was split. Rosé Park, the Iron Lady herself, would be watching from the stands, clipboard in hand, ready to enforce his “student council punishment” from the cafeteria fiasco.

He still couldn’t shake the memory of her humming Hunter x Hunter in the cafeteria, or the way her smirk had made his stomach flip. Since then, he’d been extra careful—no manga smuggling, no ramen stunts. But the itch to break rules was like a splinter under his skin, and Hyem, the devilish quarterback, knew exactly how to prod it.

“Oi, Y/N,” Hyem called, leaning against a locker, his grin sharp as a switchblade. He held up a small packet labeled “Itching Powder: Industrial Strength.” “Wanna give the White Knights a little… motivation? Slip this into their jerseys, and they’ll be scratching instead of tackling. Kekeke!” His laugh was pure chaos, and his eyes gleamed with mischief.

Y/N hesitated, glancing at the packet. It was a classic Hyem scheme—dirty, effective, and so tempting. “I dunno, Captain,” he muttered, rubbing his neck. “Rosé’s got me on a leash. If she catches me…”

Hyem’s grin widened, like a shark smelling blood. “What, scared of your girlfriend? Man up, punk. You’re a Devil Bat, not a choir boy.” He tossed the packet, and Y/N caught it reflexively, his pulse spiking.

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Y/N spluttered, his face heating up. But the packet felt like a dare, and Y/N’s rebellious streak roared to life. Just a quick prank, in and out. Rosé would be busy with crowd control, right? He stuffed the packet into his shorts, grinning. “Fine. But if I get caught, I’m blaming you.”

Hyem cackled, firing his rifle into the ceiling. “That’s the spirit! Now move, ya sneaky bastard!”

Y/N slipped out of the locker room, heart racing, and crept toward the White Knights’ changing area. He moved like a ninja, ducking behind water coolers and weaving through equipment bags, his football reflexes making him a ghost. The packet crinkled in his pocket, and he couldn’t help but giggle like a manga villain. This was gonna be legendary—

“Y/N.” Rosé’s voice hit him like a linebacker. She stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, her student council armband glinting like a warning sign. Her honey-blonde hair was tied back, and her dark eyes bored into him, sharp enough to cut glass. “What are you doing?”

Y/N froze, the packet burning a hole in his pocket. His cocky grin melted into a stammer. “P-Prez! I-I was just… uh… checking the… water pressure?” His voice cracked, and he cursed his traitor brain.

Rosé’s eyebrow arched, her signature move of doom. “With itching powder?” She nodded at his pocket, where the packet’s edge peeked out. Y/N’s stomach dropped. How did she always know?

Y/N’s mind raced, searching for an escape, but Rosé’s gaze pinned him like a butterfly. The hallway felt smaller, the air thicker, and his usual instinct to run fizzled under her scrutiny. He clutched the packet behind his back, his face burning. “Okay, fine, it’s itching powder,” he admitted, voice low. “But I haven’t done anything yet! I was just… thinking about it.”

Rosé stepped closer, her boots clicking on the tile. “Thinking about it?” she repeated, her Australian lilt sharp with disbelief. “You’re this close to suspension, Y/N. One more stunt, and you’re off the team. Is that what you want?”

The words hit like a punch. Y/N’s eyes widened, his bravado crumbling. Getting kicked off the Devil Bats? That was his life, his freedom, his everything. He pictured the field without him, Hyem’s gunfire replaced by disappointment, Aye’s cheers silenced. And Rosé, watching from the stands, not with that spark of amusement but with… nothing.

“N-No, Prez,” he stammered, his voice softer, raw. “I don’t want that. I swear, I’ll do better. Just… give me a chance. Let me play today. I’ll win it clean, no tricks.” His eyes met hers, pleading, and for once, he didn’t look away.

Rosé studied him, her expression unreadable. The hallway was silent, save for the distant roar of the crowd. Then, slowly, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m watching you, Y/N. One misstep, and you’re done.” She held out her hand. “The powder. Now.”

Y/N handed it over, his fingers brushing hers for a split second. His heart skipped, and he yanked his hand back, blushing like an idiot. Rosé pocketed the packet, her lips twitching like she was fighting a smile. “Get to the field,” she said, turning away. “And don’t make me regret this.”

Y/N nodded, bolting for the locker room, his pulse hammering. Rosé’s words echoed in his head, but so did her gaze—intense, but not cold. Was she rooting for him, just a little? The thought made his chest tight, and he shook it off, lacing up for the game. He had to focus. This was his shot to prove himself—to Hyem, to Rosé, to everyone.

The stadium was a coliseum of noise and light, the stands packed with screaming fans waving Deimon banners. The Devil Bats faced the White Knights in a clash of titans, the score tied at 14-14 in the final quarter. Y/N stood on the field, sweat soaking his jersey, his breath visible in the cool evening air. Every muscle burned, but his eyes blazed with determination. This was his moment.

Hyem barked the play, his grin feral. “Y/N, you’re up! Run the Ghost, and don’t screw it up!” The “Devil Bat Ghost” was Y/N’s signature move, a fake-out that left defenders grasping at air. Y/N nodded, adrenaline flooding his veins. He glanced at the stands, spotting Rosé near the front, her clipboard clutched tight, her eyes locked on him. His heart thudded, but he channeled it into focus.

The ball snapped, and Y/N exploded forward, the world slowing to a heartbeat. The White Knights’ linebackers charged, massive and unrelenting, but Y/N was a phantom. He spun left, then right, his feet barely touching the ground, leaving one defender sprawling. Another lunged, arms wide, but Y/N faked a cut, his body blurring in a perfect Devil Bat Ghost. The crowd gasped as he slipped through, a streak of red and black, the end zone in sight.

A final defender loomed, a mountain of muscle. Y/N gritted his teeth, pouring every ounce of speed into his legs. He juked, twisted, and leaped, diving over the defender’s outstretched arms. The stadium erupted as he landed in the end zone, the ball clutched tight, the scoreboard flashing:

Deimon 20, Ojo 14.

Y/N rolled to his feet, panting, the crowd’s roar washing over him like a tidal wave. Aye tackled him in a bear hug, yelling, “MAX TOUCHDOWN!” Hyem cackled, firing his rifle into the air. But Y/N’s eyes flicked to the stands. Rosé was still there, her clipboard lowered, her lips parted slightly. Was that… awe? Her gaze met his, and for a heartbeat, the stadium faded, leaving just them.

The game ended with a narrow Deimon victory, the Devil Bats mobbed by cheering fans. Y/N stood on the field, sweaty and exhausted, but grinning like he’d conquered the world. His teammates slapped his back, Aye chanting “Y/N! Y/N!” like a hype man. But his attention drifted to the sidelines, where Rosé approached, her boots crunching on the grass.

She stopped in front of him, arms crossed, her expression a mix of sternness and something softer. “You kept your word,” she said, her voice cutting through the post-game chaos. “No tricks. And that run…” She paused, her eyes flicking over him, taking in his dirt-streaked jersey and wild grin. “Your speed’s incredible.”

Y/N’s face lit up, his exhaustion forgotten. Rosé Park, complimenting him again? His heart did a backflip, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “W-Wanna grab ramen sometime? Y’know, legally?” His voice cracked, and he winced, expecting her to shut him down.

Rosé blinked, caught off guard. Then, to his shock, she laughed—a real, warm laugh that made her eyes crinkle. “Only if you stop running from me,” she teased, her Aussie accent curling around the words like a melody. Y/N’s jaw dropped, his cheeks burning. Was she… flirting? For real?

Before he could respond, Aye’s voice boomed from behind. “YO! Y/N’S SCORING OFF THE FIELD TOO!” The wide receiver struck a dramatic pose, pointing at them, while Hyem cackled nearby, scribbling in his blackmail notebook. Y/N spun, mortified, shouting, “Shut up, Aye!” but Rosé just shook her head, her smile lingering.

“Go shower,” she said, turning to leave. “You smell like a locker room. And Y/N? Don’t think this gets you off probation.” But her tone was playful, and as she walked away, Y/N caught her glancing back, just for a second.

Y/N trudged to the locker room, still buzzing from the win and Rosé’s words. His teammates were in high spirits, reenacting his touchdown with exaggerated flair. But Hyem and Aye had other plans. They cornered him near the showers, Hyem’s grin downright evil.

“So, lover boy,” Hyem said, flipping open his notebook. “Need help sealing the deal with the Iron Lady? I’ve got ideas. Rig the scoreboard to flash ‘Y/N <3 Rosé,’ maybe some fireworks…” He trailed off, cackling as Y/N’s face turned beet red.

“NO! Leave her alone!” Y/N yelped, flailing. Aye piled on, slinging an arm around him. “C’mon, man, we’re your wingmen! MAX SUPPORT! Gotta make the Prez swoon!”

Y/N shoved them off, grabbing his towel and sprinting for the showers. “You’re both insane!” he shouted, but their laughter chased him. As he stood under the hot water, washing off the game’s grime, he couldn’t stop smiling. Rosé’s laugh, her challenge to stop running—it felt like a new play, one he was dying to run.

Outside, Aye and Hyem schemed, their whispers drifting through the locker room. “Give it time,” Hyem muttered, smirking. “That punk’s already hooked.”

Later that night, Y/N lay in his dorm, staring at the ceiling, the Shonen Jump from his first run-in with Rosé on his desk. Her words—incredible, stop running—played on repeat, mingling with the roar of the crowd. Probation or not, game day had changed something. He grinned, heart racing. The festival was next, and with Rosé watching, he’d have to play his best game yet—on and off the field.

The Deimon High school festival was a kaleidoscope of chaos and joy, the campus alive with flickering lanterns, sizzling yakisoba stalls, and the laughter of students weaving through the crowd. Y/N trudged along a bustling path, lugging a heavy box of paper cranes, his usual swagger dampened by the weight of his latest punishment. Rosé Park, the Iron Lady of the student council, had sentenced him to festival prep after his itching powder stunt at the game—a step up from the cafeteria cleanup, but still a blow to his Devil Bats pride. He was supposed to be Deimon’s star running back, not a delivery boy for decorations.

“Pick up the pace, Y/N!” Rosé’s voice sliced through the festival din, crisp yet tinged with that Australian lilt that sent a shiver down his spine. She stood near a takoyaki stall, clipboard in hand, directing volunteers like a general on a battlefield. Her honey-blonde hair was loose, catching the golden glow of the lanterns, and her casual sweater and jeans softened her usual Iron Lady aura. She looked… approachable. Almost too pretty to be real.

“Yeah, yeah, Prez,” Y/N grumbled, setting the box on a table with a huff. He wiped sweat from his brow, stealing a glance at her. Ever since the game against the White Knights, where he’d nailed the Devil Bat Ghost and blurted out that ramen invite, Rosé had been stuck in his head like a shoujo manga heroine. Her laugh on the field, her teasing “stop running,” the way she’d looked at him—it was messing with his focus. But he was still on probation, and she was still the rule-enforcing president. No room for slip-ups.

Rosé caught his stare and tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing playfully. “What’s that look? Plotting another prank?” Her tone was stern, but a smile tugged at her lips, and Y/N’s heart did a clumsy flip.

“N-Nope, all clear!” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just… admiring your clipboard skills, Prez.” He flashed a grin, hoping it hid his blush.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks pinked slightly, and she turned to adjust a lantern. “Flattery won’t get you out of work,” she muttered, but there was a warmth in her voice that made his grin widen.

They teamed up to hang a string of paper cranes, their shoulders brushing as they reached for the same hook. Y/N’s fingers fumbled, the string slipping, and Rosé sighed, taking it from him. “Like this,” she said, her hands deft as she tied a knot, her fingertips grazing his. The touch was brief, electric, and Y/N’s breath hitched, his face burning like he’d sprinted a full field.

“T-Thanks,” he mumbled, scratching his neck, praying she didn’t hear his heartbeat. She glanced at him, her eyes softening, and for a moment, the festival’s noise faded, leaving just them—cranes swaying, her smile sneaking through, his chest tight with something new.

As dusk settled, the festival glowed under a velvet sky, the stalls twinkling like a constellation of dreams. Y/N slumped on a bench, catching his breath, while Aye scarfed down a tower of takoyaki beside him. The wide receiver’s eyes sparkled with mischief, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yo, Y/N, wanna make this festival MAX EPIC? I got something big.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, wary but curious. “Aye, if this is another food fight, I’m out. Rosé’s got me on lockdown after the itching powder thing.” He could still hear her warning from game day, sharp but tinged with trust: One misstep, and you’re done.

Aye grinned, pulling a small, suspiciously heavy bag from his jacket. “Fireworks,” he said, like he was unveiling a sacred relic. “The real deal—banned for safety reasons. We set these off during the festival climax, and bam! We’re legends. The crowd’ll lose it!”

Y/N’s stomach knotted. Fireworks were a hard no in Rosé’s rulebook, and he’d sworn to behave after nearly losing his spot on the team. But the image of bright, booming lights, the crowd cheering like they did for his touchdowns—it tugged at his rebellious streak. His fingers twitched, tempted. “Aye, if Rosé catches me, I’m toast. Like, expelled toast.”

Aye scoffed, tossing a takoyaki and catching it midair. “She’s swamped running this circus! You’re the fastest guy at Deimon, man. In and out, MAX STEALTH! C’mon, you owe me for the ramen cover-up.”

Y/N glanced at Rosé across the festival, where she was helping a kid win a goldfish, her laugh soft and unguarded. His chest ached—she’d trusted him, believed in him. But Aye’s grin was infectious, and the fireworks promised glory. “Fine,” he muttered, snatching the bag. “But you’re dead if this backfires.”

He slipped into the shadows, heading for a quiet corner near the sports field. His heart raced, half-thrill, half-guilt, as he set up the fireworks, his hands steady despite his nerves. He pictured the crowd’s awe, the sky ablaze—then froze as a voice cut through the dark.

“Y/N, again?”

Rosé stood behind him, arms crossed, her eyes a storm of frustration and disbelief. The fuse sparked, and Y/N’s bravado shattered. “P-Prez! I-I wasn’t—okay, I was, but—” His voice cracked, and his instincts screamed run. He bolted, the bag bouncing against his hip.

The festival blurred as Y/N sprinted, lanterns flashing past, stalls a kaleidoscope of color. His legs pumped, weaving through the crowd like he was dodging tacklers, but Rosé was relentless, her steps quick and determined. “Y/N, stop!” she called, her voice carrying over the festival’s hum. It was their first chase all over again—him the elusive running back, her the unyielding pursuer—but this time, the weight of his choices pressed heavier.

He veered toward the sports field, his sanctuary, where the festival lights dimmed and the stars shone bright. His lungs burned, but his mind was a tempest. Why did he keep doing this? Breaking rules, running from her? He skidded to a stop by the goalpost, panting, and turned to face her. Rosé slowed, her chest heaving, her expression a mix of anger and something raw—hurt.

“Why?” she demanded, stepping closer, her voice trembling. “Why do you keep breaking rules, Y/N? I trusted you. After the game, I thought…” She trailed off, her eyes searching his, and the vulnerability in them hit like a tackle.

Y/N’s throat tightened. He dropped the bag, the fireworks clattering to the grass. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Breaking rules… it’s like running. It makes me feel free, like nothing can catch me. But you…” He met her gaze, his heart pounding like it did before a touchdown. “You make me wanna stop, Rosé. I don’t wanna run from you. I wanna stay. ‘Cause you see me—all of me.”

Rosé’s eyes widened, her stern facade crumbling. The festival’s distant music wove through the silence, and for a moment, they were just two teens under the stars, the world holding its breath. “Y/N,” she said softly, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell her lavender shampoo. “I’ve always seen you. Your speed, your heart. But I need you to trust me, too. No more hiding.”

His shyness surged, but he pushed through, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying, Rosé. I… I really like you. And I’m scared I’ll screw this up.” His face burned, but he held her gaze, his confession hanging like a shoujo manga panel, all sparkles and heartbeats.

Rosé’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re such an idiot,” she murmured, but her voice was warm, almost tender. She picked up a single firework, turning it over in her hands. “One,” she said, meeting his eyes, a shy smile breaking through. “We’ll set off one. Together. But that’s it.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped, then he grinned, his heart soaring like a touchdown run. “Deal.” They lit the fuse, stepping back as the firework rocketed skyward, bursting in a cascade of gold and blue. The light bathed them, and Rosé’s smile—rare, radiant—stole his breath. Their hands brushed as they watched, and he didn’t pull away, the warmth of her fingers anchoring him in place.

The festival hummed on, but Y/N and Rosé lingered near the sports field, reluctant to rejoin the chaos. They wandered to a quiet stall selling floating lanterns, the kind you lit and released to carry wishes skyward. Rosé paused, her fingers tracing a lantern’s delicate paper, her expression soft. “Want to try?” she asked, glancing at Y/N with a shy spark in her eyes.

Y/N’s heart skipped. “Uh, sure, Prez. But if I wish for no more probation, you gonna veto it?” He grinned, but his voice was softer, nervous, like he was stepping onto new turf.

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and handed him a lantern. “Write your wish first, rulebreaker. Then we’ll see.” Her tone was teasing, but her gaze held something deeper, like she was daring him to be honest.

They sat cross-legged on the grass, the lantern between them, a marker shared as they scribbled their wishes. Y/N hesitated, his pen hovering. He glanced at Rosé, her hair glowing under the festival lights, her focus on her own writing. His chest tightened—she was the reason he wanted to be better, to stop running. He wrote quickly, shielding it from her, his cheeks warm.

Rosé finished hers, her handwriting neat but guarded. She caught him peeking and flicked his forehead. “No cheating,” she said, but her smile was playful, and she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through him, and he fumbled the marker, earning another laugh.

They lit the lantern together, their fingers tangling briefly as they held it aloft. The flame flickered, casting a golden glow across their faces, and Y/N’s breath caught at how close they were, her eyes reflecting the light like stars. “Ready?” she whispered, and he nodded, too flustered to speak.

They released the lantern, watching it drift upward, joining a constellation of others in the sky. Y/N’s heart pounded, his wish—to be someone Rosé could rely on—floating with it. He glanced at her, catching a wistful look on her face. “What’d you wish for, Prez?” he asked, half-teasing, half-hoping.

Rosé smirked, nudging him. “None of your business, Y/N. But… maybe it’s not so different from yours.” Her voice was soft, her blush barely visible, and Y/N’s heart did a full-on Devil Bat Ghost, dodging all his doubts.

They sat there, shoulders touching, the festival’s hum a distant melody. For once, Y/N didn’t feel the urge to run—just to stay, right there, with her.

The festival wound down, the crowd thinning as the final (approved) fireworks lit the sky in bursts of red and silver. Y/N and Rosé sat on a grassy hill, soda cans in hand, their yukatas rumpled from the day’s chaos. The air was cool, sweet with the scent of grilled squid, and their shoulders brushed, a quiet intimacy settling between them.

“You’re still on probation,” Rosé said, her tone teasing as she sipped her drink. “Don’t think one firework and a lantern get you off the hook.”

Y/N laughed, leaning back on his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Prez. But I’m gonna try, y’know? Be less… chaotic.” He glanced at her, his voice softening. “For you.”

Rosé’s cheeks flushed, and she nudged his shoulder, her touch lingering. “Good. I’ll keep you in check.” Her smile was soft, her eyes catching the firework glow, and Y/N’s heart soared, like he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

Their moment was shattered by Hyem’s cackle. “Oi, lovebirds!” The quarterback stormed up, dragging a protesting Aye. “Cleanup duty, Y/N! No slacking!” Aye, waving a skewer, shouted, “MAX POWER COUPLE!” as the Devil Bats cheered below, waving sparklers and chanting, “Y/N and Rosé!”

Y/N groaned, burying his face in his hands, but Rosé laughed, standing and pulling him up. Her hand lingered in his, warm and steady, and she leaned in, whispering, “You’re not running this time, right?” Her breath tickled his ear, and he grinned, his face burning.

“Nope,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’m staying, Prez.” They joined the cleanup, her laughter mingling with his, the festival’s glow wrapping them in promise.

Game day dawned bright, the stadium pulsing with anticipation. Y/N stood on the field, lacing his cleats, the familiar rush of adrenaline in his veins. The Devil Bats faced a new rival, and he was ready to dazzle, to run, to win. But today, his eyes weren’t just on the end zone.

He glanced at the stands, spotting Rosé in the front row, her student council armband swapped for a handmade sign: “Go Y/N!” in bold, glittery letters. She caught his gaze and waved, her smile bright and unguarded, a sparkler in the daylight. Y/N’s heart soared, and he winked at her, bold and playful. She rolled her eyes, but her blush betrayed her, and the crowd’s cheer felt like it was for them.

Hyem clapped his shoulder, smirking. “Focus, punk. Save the mushy stuff for after we crush ‘em.” Y/N laughed, pulling on his helmet. The whistle blew, and he took off, legs a blur, the field his canvas. He wasn’t running from anything—not rules, not Rosé, not himself. He was running toward her, toward trust, toward a future painted in lantern light and firework sparks.

The moment froze like a manga panel: Y/N sprinting, Rosé’s sign gleaming, their story just beginning under the stadium’s roar.

#kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop imagines #fluff #blackpink #blackpink x reader #rosé #blackpink rosé #rosé x reader #idol x male reader #x male reader #idol x reader #kpop x male reader #park chaeyoung #roseanne park

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that-hazbin · 5 months ago

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Media Demon AU - excuse me you've inspired me to write in your AU, have a gift.

Lucifer and Lilith being dragged out to Pride by Teenage Charlie, they aren't expecting anything but blood, brimstone and depravity and are pleasantly surprised to find everything drastically changed.

The streets are well lit, banners of alternating colours crisscross the streets below, colourful storefronts and music on every corner, it's easier to say what street doesn't have a sinner or group of sinners with musical instruments singing their hearts out as practice or hoping to be recruited. Walls usually vandalised with nasty graffiti feature massive spray painted murals and while some are admittedly indecent they are of high quality.

Posters on every storefronts advertising performance arts of any kind imaginable, with temporary soul contract offers for skilled musicians and other artists to either teach or perform.

Lucifer looked at some of the advertisements somewhat curiously.

Carmine Industries who in addition to Angelic Weaponry also did research and sold parts for sound systems, stages and repaired instruments in partnership with the Media Demon.

Zizzi the Party Overlord who seemed to have a mild friendly rivalry with the Media Demon in terms of recruiting talented bands with many non-violent battle of the bands in their history.

Then there was Alastor the Media Overlord himself, there was no picture, but a mention of sponsorships and sign up sheets guaranting safefy in return for the low low price of your soul. The caveat of 'for however long you were employed' was interesting but seeing the list of guaranteed benefits supplied, and the sheer lack of better options, it would be extremely difficult to refuse. Food, Housing, lessons, free dental and there was even a section for imps and hellhounds who wanted to work in the porn industry.

Lucifer paused his reading and sharpened his hearing to listen to the sinner talking to his wife and daughter.

"I'm practicing for The Media Demon... no I'm not into the lust sector... or television sector, don't worry... Overlord Alastor suggested I publicly perform to get over my stage fright. I never gotta perform up top back when I was alive cause I wasn't of the right folk. Overlord Alastor don't care about that nonsense though, so I can now!... What do you mean redemption?... Why would I want that when I got everything I want down here?... Those bigots are either up there or down here in the service industry, watching the same folks that they denied a job cause they was coloured be the next Michael Jackson is like Karmic Retribution... You wanna meed the Media Demon? Good luck with that, man's got a schedule so packed it's gotta be a war crime, managing the radio, Television, Internet and the entire Porn industry, powerful overlord but yeesh the paperwork... I don't think he actually sleeps... He's sponsoring a theater performance on Laufrey Theater, that's on Allegra Avenue... Look when the Media Demon rebuilds a entire city district after a Extermination on his own dime the demon can name a street whatever he wants... Royal permission? Pfft! Those bluebloods are never here, never help either... It's a far better name that 'Wreck that Booty Lane' that's for sure, look ladies get a new map from one of the shops, I gotta practise!"

Charlie was gone on the musical performances of the sinners on the streets, she'd thought earth was interesting from the extensive smuggled books and media she got from various Goetia and Hellborn after her interest in humans had became common knowledge but this was like everything all at once, she really didn't understand her parents extreme views on sinners. Look at what they were capable of, clear and present evidence that they just needed a chance!

Charlie was mentally adjusting her redemption plans and jerked in surprise when her father spoke up, waving a leaflet with Laufey Theater on the title. "How would you like to see a play?", her dad was showing interest in sinners? Actual interest?! Don't jinx it Charlie! "Can we really?" Charlie couldn't hold back the excitement, like a confetti cannon about to go off and it probably showed. Lucifer smiled "Anything for you Char-char"

"I'm sorry, sir, our tickets have sold out."

Alastor couldn't help but stop, ears perking up, as he passed by the Laufey Theater. It's unsurprising that the tickets have sold out, it's the premier of a creative adaptation of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and Alastor can personally attest to the uniqueness of the play. It doesn't follow the popular inspirations from James Whale's film adaptations, such as electricity bringing the monster to life, and the background music consists of newly commissioned works played live for the audience. Alastor had seen a couple of the rehearsals, and was invited to watch the premier by the theater director herself.

He was busy, though, terribly busy, and he told young miss Melody that himself. Still, she insisted on reserving seating for him in the VIP section, despite his protests. A whole box, four seats, left empty for a man who doesn't even have the time to attend? It was preposterous, really. He tried several times to convince her to sell the seats, or at least give it to some of the family of the actors, but she remained firm. No one else were to sit in that box unless he were right there along with them.

"I'm truly sorry, sir, but there really is no room left tonight. We've even had to use our expansion runes to create more space in the theater, but even those extra seats have filled out."

He should walk away. Really, he's on a tight schedule, a meeting with Carmilla Carmine and several others regarding the adaptability of angelic steel in the medical field. He has no time for a singular man missing his chance—

"Sorry, girls. I know you were excited, but maybe next time?"

Fuck.

Alastor pivots, catching sight of an imp, a succubus, and presumably their teenaged daughter, who shares features of both. Something about them is familiar, but he waves the thought away; he's used to seeing "familiar" things, given that he's back in time. He's stopped trying to place the memories.

"Pardon me," he calls, instantly getting the attention of both the family and the ticket seller. "Apologies for eavesdropping, but I seem to have a solution for your problem."

He flashes a nonthreatening smile, dripping southern charm and hospitality.

"I just so happen to have a box set aside for me, and no one else to fit the remaining seats."

He turns to the seller and winks.

"Could you tell our darling miss Melody that her so-called muse is here for the premier?"

The seller gapes, immediately connecting the dots, face growing red with realization.

"Right— Yes! Right away, sir!"

The seller practically vanishes from sight, rushing to fulfill the request. Rather than waiting outside, Alastor moves towards the doors, opening them wide. He turns his head towards the family, noting their expressions. The father looks confused, almost suspicious— which, fair enough, this is Hell after all, and although the Pride Ring has gone through many changes over the years, you can never be too careful.

The mother's face is mostly unreadable, although she seems to be evaluating him the same way he's doing it to her and her family. Taking in his demeanor, his clothing, the way he positions himself. Her daughter has, in contrast, the exact opposite disposition. She's excitable, eyes sparkling and smile wide enough to rival his own, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her behavior reminds him of a certain optimistic young lady, which only furthers to solidify his decision.

"Well?" Alastor says, cocking an eyebrow and waving a hand towards the doors. "Shall we?"

"YES!" The teenager squeals, eyes somehow growing even sparklier. She practically floats through the doors, pausing briefly to turn towards her parents to show off her excitement with a near-silent "eee!"

Her father's expression melts into something hopelessly fond, while the mother's turns amused, shaking her head exasperatedly.

"Apologies," the mother says. "Our daughter's never been to a play in the Pride Ring. She loves new experiences."

"Well, she's in for quite the event! You all made an excellent decision, tonight's show is certainly one for the ages!"

The succubus chuckles, moving to step through the doors.

"I'll take your word for it."

The father, left alone outside, seems to hesitate for a moment. Then, he gives a tight smile, moving through the doors with a polite, if awkward, nod. Alastor follows him in, and internally sighs. The familiarity he feels with these people only seems to grow, and he wonders, briefly, if it was worth ditching his meeting to sit for the next few hours trying not to wonder how on earth he knew this family.

"You know," the imp says, dragging Alastor out of his thoughts. "I don't believe I caught your name, mister...?"

"Oh my!" Alastor exclaims, perhaps a touch too loudly in the near empty foyer, turning the heads of the man's family and the few stragglers who've yet to take their seats.

"Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Alastor, the Media Demon!"

He takes the imp's hand, giving it an enthusiastic shake. He notes the man's expression is shocked, almost disbelieving. It brings a mischievous glint to Alastor's smile.

"Pleasure to be meeting you sir, quite the pleasure!"

#RETURN GIFT BE UPON YE!#thank you darling for the great gift and the inspiration it brought to me I LOVE IT #<3333 #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #lucifer morningstar #charlie morningstar #lilith morningstar #lucilith #hellradio #media demon au

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