#boss tweed

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

VINCENT PRICE as Boss Tweed

Up In Central Park (1947)

[jasonraish]

The Dodo for my Limited edition artist series bottles for Rabbit Hole Distillery. I reimagined Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland characters in a sort of Steam Punk vehicle riding world. Alice is all grown up and tatted with Dinah as co-pilot in the front. The Dodo, (who was a metaphor for politicians) has a Boss Tweed type driver atop his destructive steel behemoth. The Caterpillar has emerged from his cocoon even more twee and affectatious than before and flies away in a puff of hookah smoke. Will Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum ever make it out of the forest while working against their own interests? The Queen’s Card Guardsman patrols the night skies. The Queen of Hearts is imposing on her half flamingo-half machine. “Dareringer” is single barrel cask strength Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey finished in Pedro Ximénez sherry casks at 118 proof and luckily is my favorite of all their offerings. Available at select retailers in South Carolina and Texas. Posters, T-shirts, and stickers are also available. This was an incredible amount of work conceptualizing and designing and redesigning these characters and backgrounds. Alice in wonderland is beloved and has been reimagined so many times it took so long to develop something new. We had several half starts and reworks but in the end it was worth it, the bottles are beautifully printed and even have spot gloss embossing on the art. Time for me to go have 2 or 3 (or 4) fingers, Cheers! (also there will be more posts with behind the scenes and details stay tuned). See more of this project on my website

[arinewman7]

Lincoln Crushing the Dragon of Rebellion

David Gilmour Blythe

oil on canvas, 1862

[ehj3]

A-GOP-ALYPSE

The image: Four horse persons with one “horse” for all four. Seen from behind, an ill-fitting blue suit, overlong red tie, TINY HANDS, and mop of yellow hair leave no doubt as to who the horse represents. The split pants showing a full diaper is a plus. The four small figures—a CEO and a judge in love and an angry christo-fascist couple with Bible, cross, confederate flag, and AR-15—ride atop the…

[dontcallittimetravel]

On This Day: After a recount, god decides boss Tweed doesn't have enough votes to keep living

[gender-trash]

at work rn we're working on a feature where users can scan barcodes/QR codes on their employee badges to log into a robot, and this is all well and good except that *we* don't have employee badges at my work because it's a dinky startup. so we've just been like scanning barcodes stuck onto stuff that say TEST, or, like, random cans of soup from the test warehouse, or whatever's to hand that has a barcode on it (i use my notebook a lot bc i usually have it with me).

my boss decided this was boring & lame (and also we now want to do cloud integration so we need a better-defined set of barcodes), so he took the list of weird names from that dr seuss story about a woman who had 19 kids and named them all "dave" and fed it into chatgpt to have dall-e generate employee badge photos for them, and then printed them out, with barcodes, and made surprisingly legit employee badges out of them. with the clip-on retractor thing and all!

so now i have a Legit Employee Badge to use for testing this feature:

[guessimdumb]

Bill Wendry and the Boss Tweeds - A Wristwatch Band (1968)

Cool psych from Massachusetts - you know the type of song I'm talking about where the singer is losing his mind. Yep, that type.

I dull my mind - I feel just fine

[ineffable-gallimaufry]

was just about to post "why can't the bastard triangle help me out with this one" and then the cockroach just appeared dying in a place where i could easily spray it again without getting anything wet so.... statement retracted i guess??

[expulence]

BLACKPINK JENNIE'S $13,800 outfit from CHANEL

[historydailyfrancischappellblack]

William Magear “Boss” Tweed, leader of New York City’s crooked Tammany Hall political organization during the 1860s and 1870s, is convicted of defrauding New York City of $6 million and was sentenced to 12 years imprisonment. November 19, 1873.

Image: William Magear “Boss” Tweed, 1870. (Public Domain) On this day in history, November 19, 1873, William Magear “Boss” Tweed, leader of New York City’s crooked Tammany Hall political organization during the 1860s and 1870s, is convicted of defrauding New York City of $6 million and was sentenced to 12 years imprisonment. Thomas Nast, a political cartoonist, happily – and courageously –…

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price as Boss Tweed

Up In Central Park (1947)

[leupagus]

#bullshit a true new yorker is hoping the bull comes to life and starts goring hedge fund manageers (via cygnahime)

"Dear Lord, please keep the rats normal. And don't let that scary metal stock market bull come to life and start chasing people, dear Lord God. And come what may, may we always and forever be walkin' here."

-The New Yorker's Prayer

[holographic-abstract]

A bar in Manhattan has the OFMD bird robe fabric upholstered on the walls (Boss Tweed bar, downtown)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A year in illustration, 2023 edition (part one)

(This is part one; part two is here.)

I am objectively very bad at visual art. I am bad at vision, period – I'm astigmatic, shortsighted, color blind, and often miss visual details others see. I can't even draw a stick-figure. To top things off, I have cataracts in both eyes and my book publishing/touring schedule is so intense that I keep having to reschedule the surgeries. But despite my vast visual deficits, I thoroughly enjoy making collages for this blog.

For many years now – decades – I've been illustrating my blog posts by mixing public domain and Creative Commons art with work that I can make a good fair use case for. As bad as art as I may be, all this practice has paid off. Call it unseemly, but I think I'm turning out some terrific illustrations – not all the time, but often enough.

Last year, I rounded up my best art of the year:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/25/a-year-in-illustration/

And I liked reflecting on the year's art so much, I decided I'd do it again. Be sure to scroll to the bottom for some downloadables – freely usable images that I painstakingly cut up with the lasso tool in The Gimp.

The original AD&D hardcover cover art is seared into my psyche. For several years, there were few images I looked at so closely as these. When Hasbro pulled some world-beatingly sleazy stuff with the Open Gaming License, I knew just how to mod Dave Trampier's 'Eve Of Moloch' from the cover of the Players' Handbook. Thankfully, bigger nerds than me have identified all the fonts in the image, making the remix a doddle.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/12/beg-forgiveness-ask-permission/#whats-a-copyright-exception

Even though I don't keep logs or collect any analytics, I can say with confidence that "Tiktok's Enshittification" was the most popular thing I published on Pluralistic this year. I mixed some public domain Brother's Grimm art, mixed with a classic caricature of Boss Tweed, and some very cheesy royalty-free/open access influencer graphics. One gingerbread cottage social media trap, coming up:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

To illustrate the idea of overcoming walking-the-plank fear (as a metaphor for writing when it feels like you suck) I mixed public domain stock of a plank, a high building and legs, along with a procedurally generated Matrix "code waterfall" and a vertiginous spiral ganked from a Heinz Bunse photo of a German office lobby.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/22/walking-the-plank/

Finding a tasteful way to illustrate a story about Johnson & Johnson losing a court case after it spent a generation tricking women into dusting their vulvas with asbestos-tainted talcum was a challenge. The tulip (featured in many public domain images) was a natural starting point. I mixed it with Jesse Wagstaff's image of a Burning Man dust-storm and Mike Mozart's shelf-shot of a J&J talcum bottle.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/01/j-and-j-jk/#risible-gambit

"Google's Chatbot Panic" is about Google's long history of being stampeded into doing stupid things because its competitors are doing them. Once it was Yahoo, now it's Bing. Tenniel's Tweedle Dee and Dum were a good starting point. I mixed in one of several Humpty Dumpty editorial cartoon images from 19th century political coverage that I painstakingly cut out with the lasso tool on a long plane-ride. This is one of my favorite Humpties, I just love the little 19th C businessmen trying to keep him from falling! I finished it off with HAL 9000's glowing red eye, my standard 'this is about AI' image, which I got from Cryteria's CC-licensed SVG.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/16/tweedledumber/#easily-spooked

Though I started writing about Luddites in my January, 2022 Locus column, 2023 was the Year of the Luddite, thanks to Brian Merchant's outstanding Blood In the Machine:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/26/enochs-hammer/#thats-fronkonsteen

When it came time to illustrate "Gig Work Is the Opposite of Steampunk," I found a public domain weaver's loft, and put one of Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes in the window. Magpie Killjoy's Steampunk Magazine poster, 'Love the Machine, Hate the Factory,' completed the look.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/12/gig-work-is-the-opposite-of-steampunk/

For the "small, non-profit school" that got used as an excuse to bail out Silicon Valley Bank, I brought back Humpty Dumpty, mixing him with a Hogwartsian castle, a brick wall texture, and an ornate, gilded frame. I love how this one came out. This Humpty was made for the SVB bailout.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/23/small-nonprofit-school/#north-country-school

The RESTRICT Act would have federally banned Tiktok – a proposal that was both technically unworkable and unconstitutional. I found an early 20th century editorial cartoon depicting Uncle Sam behind a fortress wall that was keeping a downtrodden refugee family out of America. I got rid of most of the family, giving the dad a Tiktok logo head, and I put Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes over each cannonmouth. Three Boss Tweed moneybag-head caricatures, adorned with Big Tech logos, rounded it out.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/30/tik-tok-tow/#good-politics-for-electoral-victories

When Flickr took decisive action to purge the copyleft trolls who'd been abusing its platform, I knew I wanted to illustrate this with Lucifer being cast out of heaven, and the very best one of those comes from John Milton, who is conveniently well in the public domain. The Flickr logo suggested a bicolored streaming-light-of-heaven motif that just made it.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/01/pixsynnussija/#pilkunnussija

Old mainframe ads are a great source of stock for a "Computer Says No" image. And Congress being a public building, there are lots of federal (and hence public domain) images of its facade.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/04/cbo-says-no/#wealth-tax

When I wrote about the Clarence Thomas/Harlan Crow bribery scandal, it was easy to find Mr. Kjetil Ree's great image of the Supreme Court building. Thomas being a federal judge, it was easy to find a government photo of his head, but it's impossible to find an image of him in robes at a decent resolution. Luckily, there are tons of other federal judges who've been photographed in their robes! Boss Tweed with the dollar-sign head was a great stand-in for Harlan Crow (no one knows what he looks like anyway). Gilding Thomas's robes was a simple matter of superimposing a gold texture and twiddling with the layers.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/06/clarence-thomas/#harlan-crow

"Gig apps trap reverse centaurs in wage-stealing Skinner boxes" is one of my best titles. This is the post where I introduce the idea of "twiddling" as part of the theory of enshittification, and explain how it relates to "reverse centaurs" – people who assist machines, rather than the other way around. Finding a CC licensed modular synth was much harder than I thought, but I found Stephen Drake's image and stitched it into a mandala. Cutting out the horse's head for the reverse centaur was a lot of work (manes are a huuuuge pain in the ass), but I love how his head sits on the public domain high-viz-wearing warehouse worker's body I cut up (thanks, OSHA!). Seeing as this is an horrors-of-automation story, Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes make an appearance.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Rockefeller's greatest contribution to our culture was inspiring many excellent unflattering caricatures. The IWW's many-fists-turning-into-one-fist image made it easy to have the collective might of workers toppling the original robber-baron.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

I link to this post explaining how to make good Mastodon threads at least once a week, so it's a good thing the graphic turned out so well. Close-cropping the threads from a public domain yarn tangle worked out great. Eugen Rochko's Mastodon logo was and is the only Affero-licensed image ever to appear on Pluralistic.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/16/how-to-make-the-least-worst-mastodon-threads/

I spent hours on the sofa one night painstakingly cutting up and reassembling the cover art from a science fiction pulp. I have a folder full of color-corrected, high-rez scans from an 18th century anatomy textbook, and the cross-section head-and-brain is the best of the lot.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/04/analytical-democratic-theory/#epistocratic-delusions

Those old French anatomical drawings are an endless source of delight to me. Take one cross-sectioned noggin, mix in an old PC mainboard, and a vector art illo of a virtuous cycle with some of Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes and you've got a great illustration of Google's brain-worms.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/14/googles-ai-hype-circle/

Ireland's privacy regulator is but a plaything in Big Tech's hand, but it's goddamned hard to find an open-access Garda car. I manually dressed some public domain car art in Garda livery, painstakingly tracing it over the panels. The (public domain) baby's knit cap really hides the seams from replacing the baby's head with HAL9000's eye.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

Naked-guy-in-a-barrel bankruptcy images feel like something you can find in an old Collier's or Punch, but I came up snake-eyes and ended up frankensteining a naked body into a barrel for the George Washington crest on the Washington State flag. It came out well, but harvesting the body parts from old muscle-beach photos left George with some really big guns. I tried five different pairs of suspenders here before just drawing in black polyhedrons with little grey dots for rivets.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/03/when-the-tide-goes-out/#passive-income

Illustrating Amazon's dominance over the EU coulda been easy – just stick Amazon 'A's in place of the yellow stars that form a ring on the EU flag. So I decided to riff on Plutarch's Alexander, out of lands to conquer. Rama's statue legs were nice and high-rez. I had my choice of public domain ruin images, though it was harder thank expected to find a good Amazon box as a plinth for those broken-off legs.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/14/flywheel-shyster-and-flywheel/#unfulfilled-by-amazon

God help me, I could not stop playing with this image of a demon-haunted IoT car. All those reflections! The knife sticking out of the steering wheel, the multiple Munsch 'Scream'ers, etc etc. The more I patchked with it, the better it got, though. This one's a banger.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

To depict a "data-driven dictatorship," I ganked elements of heavily beribboned Russian military dress uniforms, replacing the head with HAL9000's eye. I turned the foreground into the crowds from the Nuremberg rallies and filled the sky with Matrix code waterfall.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/26/dictators-dilemma/#garbage-in-garbage-out-garbage-back-in

The best thing about analogizing DRM to demonic possession is the wealth of medieval artwork to choose from . This one comes from the 11th century 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros.' I mixed in the shiny red Tesla (working those reflections!), and a Tesla charger to make my point.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

Yet more dividends from those old French anatomical plates: a flayed skull, a detached jaw, a quack electronic gadget, a Wachowski code waterfall and some HAL 9000 eyes and you've got a truly unsettling image of machine-compelled speech.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

I had no idea this would work out so well, but daaaamn, crossfading between a Wachowski code waterfall and a motherboard behind a roiling thundercloud is dank af.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/03/there-is-no-cloud/#only-other-peoples-computers

Of all the turkeys-voting-for-Christmas self-owns conservative culture warriors fall for, few can rival the "banning junk fees is woke" hustle. Slap a US-flag Punisher logo on and old-time card imprinter, add a GOP logo to a red credit-card blank, and then throw in a rustic barn countertop and you've got a junk-fee extracter fit for the Cracker Barrel.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/04/owning-the-libs/#swiper-no-swiping

Putting the Verizon logo on the Hinderberg was an obvious gambit (even if I did have to mess with the flames a lot), but the cutout of Paul Marcarelli as the 'can you hear me now?' guy, desaturated and contrast-matched, made it sing.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/10/smartest-guys-in-the-room/#can-you-hear-me-now

Note to self: Tux the Penguin is really easy to source in free/open formats! He looks great with HAL9000 eyes.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/18/openwashing/#you-keep-using-that-word-i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means

Rockwell's self-portrait image is a classic; that made it a natural for a HAL9000-style remix about AI art. I put a bunch of time into chopping and remixing Rockwell's signature to give it that AI look, and added as many fingers as would fit on each hand.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

(Images: Heinz Bunse, West Midlands Police, Christopher Sessums, CC BY-SA 2.0; Mike Mozart, Jesse Wagstaff, Stephen Drake, Steve Jurvetson, syvwlch, Doc Searls, https://www.flickr.com/photos/mosaic36/14231376315, Chatham House, CC BY 2.0; Cryteria, CC BY 3.0; Mr. Kjetil Ree, Trevor Parscal, Rama, “Soldiers of Russia” Cultural Center, Russian Airborne Troops Press Service, CC BY-SA 3.0; Raimond Spekking, CC BY 4.0; Drahtlos, CC BY-SA 4.0; Eugen Rochko, Affero; modified)

[sjsmith56]

What am I Going to Do With You?

Summary: An investigative reporter involved in an altercation worries about the reaction from her boss and boyfriend, media mogul Bucky Barnes.

Length: 3.6 K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, named OFC, John Walker, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton.

Warnings: language, power imbalance, age difference (Bucky is 40, OFC is 29), fears of infidelity.

Author notes: Sometimes a writer struggles with inspiration and sometimes it comes from out of the blue. The inspiration for this story came from the photoshoot Sebastian did for Entertainment Weekly, promoting The Apprentice. Several pictures gave me a media mogul vibe and I went from there. What happens after the ending is left to your imagination. Go wild.

I sat there beside the sergeant's desk, waiting to be released after being bailed out, worrying about Bucky's reaction when he got up there.  It wasn't my fault this time.  It really wasn't, but I knew that wasn't going to wash with him.  This time he wouldn't be able to keep it out of the news as it was already going viral over social media.  The door behind me opened, making me turn in curiosity, and John Walker came out, still holding an ice bag to his nose.  Shaking my head, I faced forward, ignoring him.

"You broke my fucking nose," he whined, as he passed me, looking back as I sat there.

"You're lucky I didn't break more," I answered, the fire within me flaring up again.  "Next time, maybe you'll think twice about bullying some kid because you didn't get your exact favourite brand of fucking still water.  God, you're such a dickwad."

"John, let it go," said his lawyer, guiding him towards the door out of the office.  "You can press civil charges for the injury."

"No, he can't!" I yelled, before the door closed.  "He assaulted me.  It's all over social media and all my friends saw him shove me first."

The sergeant at the desk glared at me and I sat back in my chair, then repositioned the ice bag on my right hand.  I probably broke something on Walker's stupid nose.  Then the door into the office opened, and Bucky walked in.  He just stood there for the longest moment with that look on his face, the one that told me I really fucked up good this time.  It wasn't an angry look, but it was disappointed and that, more than anything, upset me.  I could feel the tightness begin in my throat and then my lips began to tremble.  Clamping my jaw down I suppressed the urge to cry, not because I didn't want to but because if I did, any one there could take a picture of me, and it would go out on social media with the tags #Bucky Barnes girlfriend arrested again #how many times is too many? #is this the end for Bucky and Skye? 

He looked so good as well, wearing clothes I helped pick out.  The oversized tweed jacket paired with the black slacks, mint green dress shirt and deep brown tie was something else.  Prada really suited him.  He smiled at the sergeant, offering him the receipt for my bail.

"Did a paramedic check Ms. Knight's hand?" he asked.

The sergeant nodded.  "She refused treatment.  They thought she might have broken it."  He looked over at me.  "She's been okay here, except when Walker came out."

Bucky smirked.  "Yeah, assholes have that effect on her.  Are we good here?"

The sergeant smiled and handed Bucky his receipt back as well as my purse.  With an audible exhale he came over to me and kneeled down, gently removing the ice bag from my right hand, then inspecting it himself. 

"Does it hurt?"  I nodded.  "Come on, I'll take you to the clinic to get it x-rayed."

"The clinic, really?" 

I was being a brat, I know, but he put the ice bag back on my hand and stood up, waiting for me.

"Skye, you know that every use of the clinic provides funding for the free clinic in Bed-Stuy.  It's late, we're both tired and they can see you and treat you within an hour.  Put your outrage somewhere else for a moment."

He was right.  He usually was and he never crowed about it or made it into a big deal.  It was one of the things I loved about him.  After holding the office door open for me, he pressed the elevator button, then allowed me to go in first, his hand slightly on the small of my back.  The door closed on us.

"Do you want to hear what happened?"

"I know what happened," he answered calmly.  "Nat called me, and you know that she never sugar coats it.  There are enough videos on Snapchat, Instagram, and X to make a movie about it."

"Are you mad at me?" His calm demeanour was getting to me.

"Mad?  Why would I be mad?  You stood up to a bully who was trying to get a kid fired for being the one who told him they didn't have his favourite brand of still water."

"But I hit him.  Broke his nose, probably."

A slight smile appeared on Bucky's face.  "He pushed you before you did hit him, so it was self-defence."  He put his arm around my shoulder and kissed the top of my head.  "I'm not mad.  I am concerned that you wasted a punch on that asshole and not on someone who matters."  He breathed out.  "Not that there's going to be a repeat of this, right?"

He gazed at me; his blue eyes dominant on his bearded face.  It was the same face he used in business as owner / CEO of an entertainment company that was a major player in news, movies, and television programming.  That face was rarely used on me but when it was, I knew he meant it.  I nodded my head, thoroughly chastened. 

"Now, there are news crews outside the precinct, including some of my own people," he said.  "They're going to be pushing you for a statement.  I can speak for you if you wish but if you choose to say something, don't be inflammatory.  John Walker might be an asshole but there are still powerful people who support him and don't like it when he's shown in a negative light.  They can drag your name through the mud, and by extension, mine.  I can handle it, so you don't have to protect me.  I'll protect you as much as I can, but I can't be seen giving you preferential treatment as you're still an employee and there is a power imbalance between us.  Accusations of favouritism because you're my girlfriend take away from your own abilities and I won't be accused of that."

I smiled a little.  He was protective of me, but I got my job because I was good at it, not because I was sleeping with him.  In fact, I had my job before I ever met him, and we didn't sleep together for almost two months after we started dating.  For a few moments before the elevator door opened, I remembered the night we met.  For two years I had been working as an investigative reporter for an affiliate station in the east, going to bat for people up against uncaring bureaucracies, or helping those who fell between the cracks when they were dealing with assholes who took their money but didn't deliver the goods.  I was nominated for a national news award and went to New York for the awards ceremony.  It was an open bar, and I lined up to order a drink.  Just as I got to the front, I heard a man's voice.

"May I buy you a drink?"

"It's an open bar," I said, before turning to face the voice, then almost falling down at the sight of the man next to me.

His chestnut hair was longish but well styled, and his close clipped beard with the slightest bit of grey in it was definitely attractive.  He wore an Armani tuxedo, Cartier watch, and shoes that probably cost more than I made in a month.  It was his eyes that captured me the most, as the blue grey hue stood out in their intensity.  Then he smiled and I was lost.

"It is an open bar," he agreed, "but for a bit extra I can promise you a better quality champagne, or whatever you want.  My treat."

"Champagne, then," I answered. 

He nodded at the bartender and held up two fingers, then pulled out his wallet.  Producing a black card with no writing on it, he touched the terminal and slid the card back into its spot, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill for the tip jar.  At first, I thought it was a bit of an extravagant display of wealth, but he looked at my face and chuckled.

"I'm not showing off.  It's the smallest bill I have but is appropriate for the price of this champagne."

He handed me my glass, then took his and ushered me over to a spot beside a large plant.  Before he could introduce himself, another man noticed him and joined us.

"James, you made it." He glanced at me.  "You brought a date?"

"We don't know each other," I said quickly.  "He just bought me a drink."

"Tony, this is Skye Knight," replied Bucky.  "She works at one of my affiliate stations and is up for a national award in investigative reporting.  Miss Knight, this is Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, parent company of Red Iron Media.  I'm James Barnes, technically your boss."

He knew who I was.  I opened my mouth to say something but all that came out was a hurried thank you for the drink.  As the two men began talking business, I realized I was in over my head and quickly interrupted them to say I saw someone I knew and excused myself.  As soon as I was out of view (or so I thought) I downed my champagne and escaped to the ladies' room, where I promptly hyperventilated.  A red headed woman glanced at me.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm fine," I said, unconvincingly.  "I just embarrassed myself in front of James Barnes and Tony Stark.  No biggie."

She chuckled, then offered me her hand.  "Natasha Romanov, I work for Mr. Barnes.  You shouldn't be intimidated by him.  He's one of the good ones.  Stark isn't bad either."

"Skye Knight," I replied.  "I didn't recognize either of them."

"You're up for an investigative reporting award," she said.  "Mr. Barnes was very pleased that someone with a regional station was nominated.  He's always pleased when the news division does well.  Don't worry about it."  She looked at her watch.  "We should be taking our seats.  If I remember correctly, you're sitting at Mr. Barnes' table.  He's probably already there, wondering where we are."

It was at that moment of reliving that night that the elevator door opened, and the flashes of photographers began, even though they were still outside, crowded around the glass doors.  Bucky looked at me.

"Ready?" 

I nodded and he guided me out into the press of people.  There were questions about what happened and if I was injured.  Then the questions were thrown at Bucky.

"How do you feel about your star reporter being involved in an altercation with John Walker?  When he came out earlier, he hinted at a possible civil suit against you and Skye."

He looked out over the assembly then at me.  His stoicism was impressive as he gave no sign that he was bothered by any of it.

"I commend Ms. Knight for trying to stand up for an individual who was being bullied.  When John Walker became belligerent enough to push her, she reacted as anyone would when feeling threatened.  It's not the first time he has been accused of bullying behaviour.  The videos of bystanders show that he was the aggressor by assaulting her first.  I stand by Ms. Knight as a valued member of our news services and will defend her right to intervene when she sees someone being bullied."

There were several more questions and although I did speak, my hand started to hurt.  When one of the photographers brushed up against me, I cried out and Bucky immediately shielded me, then asked for the reporters to clear so he could take me for medical attention.  Clint was there with the car, and he came forward, clearing a path for us until we could get in the back seat. 

"Straight to the clinic please," said Bucky, then he turned to me.  "You should have said something.  I would have cut that circus short."

I didn't reply, but I did begin to cry because I was almost at my limit, and Bucky put his arm around me, murmuring I would be okay.  His sympathy was almost worse than his disappointment.  Soon, we were at the clinic, and he escorted me in where I was whisked away for an x-ray.  When I was brought back to an examining room, Bucky was waiting for me.  Less than 10 minutes later, I was given a shot for the pain, then Dr. Banner came in and confirmed I broke a bone in my hand.

"Boxer's fracture," he said.  "We'll have to reduce it before we splint and wrap your hand.  It will take about six weeks to heal and another six weeks for you to get your strength back.  No boxing, obviously, but you should avoid using it at all.  That includes computer use."

I groaned a little, but he just smiled at me then left to prepare the kit to wrap up my hand. 

"After you heal up, you're taking boxing lessons to learn how to hit properly," said Bucky, before Dr. Banner returned.

"I thought you said I couldn't do that anymore," I replied, sarcastically.

"You still need to know how to defend yourself and it's great exercise."  He crossed his legs at the knee.  "How do you think I keep my girlish figure?"

He was grinning when he said that which almost made me laugh.  Dr. Banner and a nurse returned to tend to me.  Even with the painkiller it hurt when he reset the bone, but as he wrapped my hand up after fitting the splint, the compression helped relieve some of it.  He recommended more ice packs and gave me two days worth of strong pain killers, saying I should be okay with over-the-counter medication after.  Bucky shook his hand, then walked me out to the car, where Clint hopped out and opened the back door for us.

"Home?" he asked. 

Bucky nodded.  I leaned against him, then placed my uninjured hand on his.  He rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb as we rode.  It was almost 2 am when Clint pulled up to the tower.

"I won't be going in tomorrow," Bucky said.  "I'll telecommute.  Take the day, sleep in, have lunch with your wife and I'll see you the day after."

"Sure thing," replied Clint, then he opened the back door for us and waited until we were inside the lobby door before driving off.

On the way up in the elevator, my mind wandered again as Bucky checked his phone.  He smirked a few times.

"Walker's people are trying to spin it that you were drunk," he said.  "The people aren't buying it.  He didn't even have a reservation at the restaurant and bullied the maître d' into giving him and his entourage a table.  Several people who were there are saying he was rude well before you got there.  I'll get Steve to make a call to him, remind him that if the general public found out about his side pieces that it could get ugly for him."

"Do you have any side pieces?" I blurted out, as the pain killers had taken effect and loosened my tongue.

He had been married before and was separated when we met, although I wouldn't go out with him until his divorce from Sharon was finalized.  My question must have surprised him because he said nothing, making me wonder if I was now the one living in denial.  When the elevator door to the penthouse opened, I walked straight to our bedroom and got changed, after cleaning my face with one hand.  That was fun.  When I came out, wearing one of his dress shirts and nothing else, Bucky was sitting in a leather armchair, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up.

"Come here," he said, softly, patting his lap.

I knelt on the floor in front of him, unwilling to sit where he wanted me.  With a bit of a frown, he rested his head on his hand, and gazed intently at me.  I knew that what I said bothered him as the crease between his brow returned after disappearing during the car ride. 

"Why did you say that?" he asked, watching my face intently.

I shrugged.  "I'm feeling a little loopy, I guess.  It just came out."

"Have I done anything to make you think that I'm cheating on you?"

"No, never.  Forget I said it."

"I can't," he replied.  "I'm bothered you would think that of me."  He leaned closer, taking my face in his hands.  "What am I going to do with you?"

I knew it was a rhetorical question, but I uttered something borne out of my own insecurities.

"Are you going to break up with me?"

He pulled me up into his lap, enclosing me with his arms and kissing my face all over.  Then he made sure I was looking directly at him. 

"No, I love you," he replied, his voice cracking slightly.  "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.  Why do you think I would want to break up with you?"

I frowned and looked away.  "Social media tags.  It seems that I'm often making the news instead of reporting on it and people say that at some point it will make us break up."

"Fuck social media.  They don't know how much I love you.  Making the news comes with the job.  It has since we started dating.  You remember the night we met, right?"  I nodded.  "Remember how you ran from me and Tony because you were so intimidated?"  I looked at him in surprise.  "I knew.  You looked like a deer in the headlights.  It was adorable and I knew then that I wanted to know you.  Then you found out I was separated from Sharon but not divorced and refused to go out with me until it got finalized.  Didn't stop the gossip rags and bloggers from making stuff up about us.  You won that award and suddenly the pictures of us having that drink were being paraded as proof that we were together.  They even said that Tony and I shared you as a girlfriend.  You don't know how many lawsuit threats I made on your behalf when I became aware they were going to sully your name for breaking up my marriage."

"Are you serious?  How come I didn't know about this?"

"Because I had your back."  A soft look came over his face as he gazed at me.  "Maybe, we should give them something real to talk about."

"Like what?"

He shifted a little, reaching into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a small box.  My heart flipped when I saw it and I could barely breathe.

"I've been carrying this around for a few weeks now, waiting for the right moment.  I could have sprung for a room full of flowers in front of all of our friends, and cases of that champagne I bought you the night we met but that's been done before.  How many guys ask their girlfriends to marry them after they've broken their hand, punching an asshole in the nose because he was bullying someone?  You're authentic, Skye.  You live life to the fullest, you stick up for anyone who needs your help, your principles are beyond reproach, and you make me feel like I'm 30 again, instead of the 40-year-old man that I am.  I love everything about you, and I don't want to wait any longer.  Would you marry me?"

I hadn't even seen the ring yet, as the box was still closed but I looked into his eyes and saw what I saw every moment I ever spent with him.  He loved me, a 29-year-old woman raised by a single mother, who taught me to always stand up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves.  I grew up in a trailer park and wore clothes from thrift stores.  Bucky was born into old money wealth, attended private schools, and an Ivy League college.  But he was also raised by a single mother, widowed with four children, and grew up not taking anything for granted.  He volunteered in food banks and soup kitchens and used his wealth to help those who barely had enough to live on.  Now, he wanted me to be with him forever.

"Yes, I'll marry you."

He opened the ring box displaying a ring with an enormous solitaire diamond.  Big, yes but simple and beautiful.  It fit perfectly then he kissed me, deeply but slowly, as his hands held me firmly on his lap.  We sat there for some time, admiring the ring and each other until he stood up and carried me bridal style to the bed. 

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked once again, as he loosened then removed his tie, and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Whatever you want," was my answer, as the rest of his clothes were abandoned. 

"I want you, always," he said, joining me on the bed, his blue eyes darkened with desire.

Always, I liked the sound of that.

One Shots Masterlist

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[silverinkbottle]

Oh. You

Alright. Finished up the season, enraptured by the concept and premise. Especially with our lovely deer boi's total not mental break at the end.

HUGE SPOILERS FOR FINALE OF HAZBIN. GO WATCH THEN READ

Chapter 2 <-

Warnings: Violence. Murky employment of child-like spirits.

Alright. On to the premise of the fic AU.

Summary: Unexpected meetings with Exes are always dramatic. Meetings in Hell after a historic battle aren't an exception to the rule.

A/N: Shorter chapter, but writing the next one as we speak. Yes, more Reader powers/backstory shall be revealed. This was just a hint of it.

Radio Demon..Gone

A pause in the wave of whispers.

Defeated?

Your lips curled in quaint satisfaction. It wasn’t true. No, he was far too proud to go out like that. The cigarette in your left hand was quickly extinguished in a nearby ash tray as you slid over the familiar carriage of the metal typewriter. The melodic ding of the mechanisms as your fingers hovered over the cool keys. The pamphlet would have to be perfect as you could all but hear your boss’s ranting and raving if the ‘excitement’ of the failed extermination. The bravado of Hell’s singular Princess. That was the problem when writing propaganda, it was so much harder when imagining details instead witnessing them first. Or second hand as there was a faint ding of a bell, a small furred paw slid across a new memo over your desk as you glanced over it with little interest. 

Radio Demon. Located.

“Show me. My little rabbit.” You purred as your little messenger respectfully tipped his hat to you. Gently gripping your hand with its paws, you couldn’t help but hold your breath at the claustrophobic sensation of the endless darkness. It was how these little lost souls traveled throughout Hell, through the little pockets of forgotten realities.  Never really existing as a true Sinner or Hellborne, all but clinging to a semblance of existence instead of nothing. It’s how your ‘paper’ boys came to your service. The boys came in a collection of fur colors, blacks, browns, whites even the occasional red, all with long rabbit ears popping through tweed caps, looking smart in little vests and trousers. One key feature remained the same, their facial features were blank like a mannequin in a shop. As if unable to manifest their ‘true’ faces from their past, or was it the disjointed collection of spirits unable to enforce a singular will on the others. 

“Oh”.  Your eyes flickered around to the carnage of rubble. It was a mess, that was the gentlest way of putting it. However, there was an undeniable note of copper in the air, mingling with strangely sweet notes as you nudged at the corpse of an Exorcist in passing. Even that tap with your boot provoked further golden ichor from numerous stab wounds. 

“Don’t touch that.” You hissed quickly grabbing the paperboy’s hand to plug him away from the puddle. Who knew what would happen if it managed to somehow consume the holy blood. The gory vision of an imploded corpse passed over your mind. Or somehow the souls reviving themselves. No, it wouldn’t do as your hand tightened about the child-like figure’s wrist as the pair of you marched toward the wreckage of the radio station. 

The copper flecks in the warped into something far saltier as you unceremoniously kicked in the half-broken door. A squeak of excitement came from your servant as it was drawn to the energy lingering in the air, bouncing into the room. Paws reaching for the unseen as another loud squeal came from its’ faceless mask. A true scream like that of a small child as black blood dripped down onto the floor, followed by the corpse dissipating much to the disappointment of the predator. Alastor lazily flicked the ink-like blood from his hand as you sighed.

“You look like shit.” You said as that seemed to grab his attention from the corpse to you. Suit torn, a visibly hurt shoulder and above all, that dim smile that seemed to go even thinner with your inspection.

“Like even worse than the time with those moonshiners who gave us a bad batch after that wrong call out. Worse than-” 

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here.” 

His words edged with a metallic screech as you couldn’t help but laugh. His pride made it all the worse to have someone witness the great, dangerous, infamous ‘Radio Demon’ licking his wounds. 

“Making sure your ears aren’t burning, darling. The walls talk and this whole stand-off with Heaven will be all the rage on the streets. Especially about YOUR disappearance after returning so briefly for all the fanfare you stirred up. Aligning yourself with the Princess of Hell, facing Angels and aiding in some hotel. Had to come see it for myself..”

“Seems like I was a bit late for that last part. Shame.” You sighed as you jabbed a pointed finger towards the mess outside. Stepping over the corpse it was all too easy to see the little restraint remaining in the demon’s gaze as sharp nails grabbed your face.

“Don’t get pissy because I am telling YOU the truth. A nice change for once, don’t you agree?” You teased as his free hand drifted over the crimson fur of your fox ears. Your sharp canine sank down onto your lower lip to resist the urge to squeal when the gentle touch turned to a rougher tug. A thin trickle of blood drifted over Alastor’s smug expression as you had managed to cut a razor-thin line with your folding knife over his skin. His throat would be next if he didn’t release your ears as you hissed low in your throat.

“Curiosity killed the cat, dearest. Surely you know that better than most.” Alastor retorted as his gaze flicked down to your covered throat. 

“Aren’t we terribly clever.” You sneered as you took a few steps back. Even in his weakened state, you knew it was wiser to play your cards cautiously than provoke him further. Genuine surprise crossed your features as you spied to battered remains of that infernal microphone. So those rumors were true as you withdrew your little black book from your dress pocket. A snap of your fingers as an inkwell pen neatly checked off the short list. You were quick to close the book with a loud sigh as Alastor’s peering over your shoulder was less than subtle. 

“Don’t you-”

“My, my, still writing all sorts of rumors aren’t you. However, do you find the time?” Alastor mused as he flicked lazily through the pages. Irritatingly sidestepping you with each attempted grab. There wasn’t much worth in that book, but it was still beyond infuriating. Taking a deep breath, you forced a pleasant smile on your face as your fingers snapped together. There was the faintest ding of a typewriter as another small rabbit-like creature sprang from the floor, collecting the book with a quick grab. 

“I have reliable help. Which is surprisingly difficult to come by these days. Unlike some Sinners, I can’t shrink from my duties to throw a temper tantrum.” You ticked off the comments on your fingers as Alastor’s ears went flat at the petty remark. 

“Oh, I am sorry. Would you like me to embellish it a bit? A dramatic session of sulking after a bruising defeat. An outburst of egotistical pride? No. Something far more crude. A shit-fit.” You nodded to your little rabbit as its paws hastily scribbled your dictation into the notebook.

“Hilarious.”

“I prefer charming.” You deadpanned as he shook his head at you. There was an almost faint feeling of nostalgia in the air now. It was almost human as the faintest memory of you finding him sulking after a less than perfect evening show. That his beat was off, ever the perfectionist as you patted his head with gentle encouragement. Far less cruel times before the darkness began to contaminate both of you.

“You never did answer my question. What are you doing here?” Alastor quipped as he ran a fingertip over the broken top of the microphone. 

“You really think I would miss out on the potential of this?” You dramatically gestured to the carnage about you.So many stories waiting to be written as you clapped your hands together. Summoning two more paperboys as their ears quivered from side to side waiting for your word. 

“Now off you go. Don’t leave a stone unturned. I wonder if we can get some true numbers on the casualties of saintly Heaven. Now would stir up the populace.” Your pen cut through your book without a thought as if you were in the privacy of your office. Instead of that of one ex-husband who was looking more and more perturbed at your avoidance of the question.

“I’m waiting.” Alastor chirped as his fingers splayed over the wet ink, pulling the book away from you. Or at least he tried to as you were quick to jab the sharp tip of the pen into his index fingers provoking a small hiss from the demon.

“You’ll keep waiting. I’ll give you a single crumb, I didn’t come here for YOU.” You snapped as you did your best to smooth out the crinkled page. The writing itself was a smudged mess of ink as you scowled at the once crisp paper.

“Then. Why?” Alastor asked as you gently closed the book shut, slipping it into your dress pocket. Now came the difficult or was it the dangerous part? Despite your estranged relationship, he was an Overlord and you were well..You. Your connections came from the rumor mills of Hell, whispers of your paperboys hiding in the shadows and the scant bit of information from the rants of your boss.

“I was asked to inspect the battleground, sort out the truth from the gossip and exaggerations. Plus the smallest bit of curiosity-”

“About-?” Alastor mused as he cocked his head at you.

“If it was true that Angels had been slain by their own weapons. I know markets are going to flux with all that. Not to mention the apparent discovery of near comatose cannibals found on the side of the road. Complaining about being TOO full for once, it was quite-” 

“You’re chirping an all too familiar song, kit. I know you are hiding something far more than that. Now whoever could have convinced YOU to do the dirty business of finding out sources yourself.” Alastor mused as he placed a single finger under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“It was Vox.” 

Laughter burst from you as saw the telltale twitch of his right eye. The harsher smile over his face at the mere mention of his hated rival. The potential power vacuum or perhaps the reverse of it now that the King of Hell seemed less reclusive.

‘Now, don’t get your antlers in a knot. It wasn’t Vox, you really think I would lower myself and quality for his trash version of news? Please, darling. I do have standards.” You smirked as you smugly patted his cheek before turning on your heel to leave the wreckage of the studio.

“Now, don’t sulk for too long. I imagine that little hotel needs you now more than ever.” 

As soon as you stepped back into the air. Small papers were all but shoved in your direction. Questions, answers, comments all things to be filed away as you dove into your work. Allowing words to shove out the memories of the past. To continue forging your path in this forsaken place in your own way. With the smallest bit of leverage through blackmail, threats and a flair all your own. 

Flipping through the notes, the faintest tug on your sleeve pulled your attention from the words. A simple request. One that made you want to throw a tantrum of your own as the golden ink burned in your vision. It wasn’t a request. 

It was an order.

“Fuck me.” You hissed as you pulled a cigarette from your pocket, allowing the flame of your lighter to ignite the blissful nicotine and eat away at the fine paper. Burning the message into ash to join the rest of the wreckage around you.

You hated feeling cornered. It was an ugly feeling that made your skin crawl like a fox with its leg caught in a trap. There was bitter irony in the scenario as you caught sight of your reflection in the mirror. The vulpine-like features weren’t as much of a hindrance as you knew it could be for other sinners. Your ears twitched as you could hear the faint conversation outside on the street beneath your room’s window. However, it did make your emotions more expressive as you could guard your tongue, but your ears were another story when it came to harsher emotions.  Running a brush through the soft fur of your tail as you perched on the edge of your desk, quietly directing the paperboys about you. Files had to be carefully moved, copied, sent elsewhere for safekeeping and then copied again. Each copy had little fragments of the truth in it, it would be quite the task to assemble all the pieces of the puzzle if someone was desperate enough. Or stupid enough given the true owner of the content wasn’t fond of others knowing his secrets.

Hours passed in a mere blink of the eye as you sighed running your fingers over the last box of files with satisfaction. All written in ink or typed by typewriter, some called your method of recordkeeping outdated. You preferred to think of it as efficient, it was far more difficult to change dried ink than a meddlesome electronic document. Besides, your boss was pleased as long as you managed to write his dictations without the need for a pause in his rambling. Yet, given the events lately, hopefully the work would keep him bursting into your quarters late at night too often.

Clicking together the last few buttons of your tweed dress collar as the lapel was accented by a singular red rose pin, you couldn't help but admire the shine of it. Its metallic petals caught in the sunlight as you stepped out onto the busy streets.You were quick to grab the ears of the paperboys flanking you, halting them from bolting off, especially with the boxes in their hands.

“No time to dawdle, I can’t be late..” You hissed before releasing the furry ears with a nod. Others would soon follow their steps as you silently hoped your arrival wouldn’t be met with much trouble. Up to the steps of the newly refurbished, rebuilt and endorsed by the King of Hell himself, the newly improved..

Hazbin Hotel