#burlesque loops

[atomic-chronoscaph]

TGIF

[beneathsilverstars]

[sees a star-themed character] i MUST draw them in my clothes IMMEDIATELY

don't ask how loop is wearing makeup. maybe their face can just do that

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (Part 3)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie

Part 3 A tragedy 

So enraptured with Alastor, you forgot how you left work on Saturday. Tommy didn’t forget. And he made sure you remembered. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for you, your paramour made a habit of helping quicken karma’s balancing act.

「warnings/promises: immediate physical assault (let’s be up front about that), allusions to sexual assaults having happened in the past to non-reader characters, HumanAlastor x FemReader, penetrative sex, Protective Alastor, bruises, somewhat graphic descriptions of murder, mentions to coerced prostitution, sex near a corpse (words that have the FBI watching me), stabbing, knife, bad burlesque names, gambling, my own new HC for the Radio Demon’s origins, another deer reference thanks to @n-after-me , chin quivering, Tommy doesn’t know French and it shows, posted early for @jazzmasternot, wrath」

Minors DNI 🤺

You walked into the theatre for rehearsals with a pep in your step, body still humming. It was like the usual adrenaline rush Alastor brought couldn't fade this time.

But it did, when Tommy grabbed you by the hair out of your makeup chair and threw you into the wall. 

You couldn’t react, head ringing after it left a small indent in the drywall. Unlike before, you didn’t try to stand. Make him work for his second hit. And he did. Leaning down he yanked you off the ground by your arm and dragged you to your feet. 

“Do you think you’re funny?” He shook you, you were sure you could feel your brain jostle. It was rhetorical, but you replied anyway.

“No, Tommy.”

“No. Exactly.” He backed you up onto the make up table, head pressed into the mirror. “Mr. Wilson was not happy. He pulled his contribution. I know you don’t have that kind of money. Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

His fingers dug into your cheeks, “No.” You genuinely didn’t. He was talking to you like you had been in the loop on whatever it was he had been doing on the side. All of this was as shocking to you as your actions were, apparently, to him. 

“You’re gonna take whatever meetings I make until that money is back.” He let go of you and turned to leave but changed his mind. Coming back, he swung his fist and clocked you on the left side of your face.

You didn’t see it, but you heard the other girls running and pulling Tommy off of you, yelling and pleading for him to calm down.

“I worked really hard for you!” He shouted, jerking his shoulders out from under the hands of the other performers. What was he talking about? You hadn’t discussed any of this, asked for any thing from him. “I waited for a high roller for you. Real classy guy. Just wanted a private show! That was it!” He spit, “No, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is welcome now to ask for your time.”

You just held your face, unsure if you had the right makeup to hide the bruise before stage call. 

“Well?! Say you’re sorry.”

You considered not saying anything. No response. When you looked at him, you could see the half a dozen other girls staring back at you, just say it. We have to rehearse.

“I’m sorry.” Eyes cast to the floor.

“For what?”

It hurt when you rolled your eyes, “For being ungrateful?” 

He shoulder checked a few girls on the way out. A couple came to you.

“He’s got some gambling debt, he’s just using us to get ahead.”

“I have some stuff to cover that up for tonight.”

“He usually cuts us in.”

Tears stung your eyes, you were angry and humiliated. You could work elsewhere, with a little luck. Take a job at a diner out of the area where no regulars would stir up trouble. Maybe leave until Tommy got his debts paid off or whatever was motivating this recent streak of cruelty. But you didn’t want to run away. No one applauded waitresses. Maybe if you made yourself as unattractive as possible, no one would request you. Dirty your teeth, talk about other men, speak crudely. 

“What exactly was he talking about?” you asked no one in particular. The girls were quiet for a beat.

“Well ya know, private shows for clients who can afford it.” High pitched and nasal, Florence spoke as she searched her make up station.

“That’s it?” Incredulous.

“Sometimes. You know how it is… woman left alone in a room with a man who has too much money or ego or drink. Doesn’t always stop at a dance.” Minnie had much more experience than you, “It isn’t our jobs. It isn’t normal. But, well, ya heard about New York right? They’re trying to make burlesque outright illegal…”

“Gotta enjoy the art while it’s just misunderstood.” Florence wiped down your mirror before setting her supplies down for you. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

By the time patrons began to stream in, you had blood staining the white of your left eye. Nothing you could do, but maybe at a distance it wouldn’t be noticeable. The bruise under your eye from his fist was easy enough to cover. The contusion from where your right cheek hit the wall was a little harder. 

Luckily, the stage offered a buffer of space and the rest of the room was dark. 

During your show, you tried to keep your eyes moving so the red sclera never stayed in one place too long. For the first time, the cheers did nothing for you. You felt your chin quiver, fighting back tears. You wanted to scream, to tell them to hate you and leave. Stop fucking clapping.

Ruth was naturally the first to come to you after your performance, “Want me to do the tour with you? Arm in arm around the hall.”

You took her up on the offer. It lightened the load, her taking charge of the conversation when people approached or bought you drinks. Luckily the bartender always poured the performers weak cocktails and watered down liquor to keep their heads on straight. 

Ruth’s companionship afforded you precious time to plan, to consider how quickly you could find new work or at least a way out of this.

“What a treat. Two for one. Can I buy you both a drink?” 

Ruth turned first to greet the customer, “Ooh yes sir! Gin and tonic, please and thank you. Autumn?” Your stage name drew your attention back to the world, turning finally.

“Alastor.” It fell from your mouth like a lead balloon.

He smiled down at you, his hand offering a little wave, “Hello. Surprise.” 

Your face fell, a frown pulling down your chin. It took you too long to recover, batting your eyelashes and turning the corners of your lips up unnaturally. 

“So you do have a beau!” Ruth slapped your arm, “I’m Skye, Skye Scraper. Pleasure to meet you, Alastor.” She extended her hand, Alastor planting a kiss on the back of it, concealing his smile at the name.

You tried to keep your eyes on the floor, head turned slightly away from him to obscure the neon sign of an eye shouting, ‘Weak!’

Unfortunately for you, Alastor wasn’t an oblivious man. Unless he was dancing or drunk. “May I have a moment alone with her?” Alastor asked Ruth. Ruth looked to you for your okay, and you just nodded. She gave a little nod of her own to Alastor and slinked away. 

“Are you unhappy to see me, dear? Did I overstep by coming by unannounced?” You hadn’t heard him worried before, it pained you. 

“No, no! I am… so happy to see you. I just had a long day.” You scanned the room for the darkest area to bring him. A booth would be best, you could keep him on one side of you. You gestured with a nod of your head.

“Ah, I kept you out too late.” Alastor didn’t move.

“Not at all, come on let’s sit down.” You reached back for his hand without looking at him, but when you pulled he still didn’t move. He remembered the way you pulled at the hand of that man in the alley the first night you met. Desperate to escape somewhere. 

“Is there a reason you won’t look at me?”

Lie. 

“Uh, no, I’m just embarrassed about this heavy stage makeup.” 

Alastor paused, hand slipping from yours to adjust his sleeves. It was a nervous action, an attempt to self soothe, but you didn’t know that. “I should have asked before coming.”

“Alastor, it’s not…,” you kept your eyes down at your hands.

“Then look at me.”

Would he think you were incapable of protecting yourself? His pity would kill you. Perhaps he would decide a second rate burlesquer wasn’t worth making time for anymore.

You could intentionally wound him, say you don’t want to see him so he leaves. But that sword was double edged and you weren’t sure you’d survive that either. You weren’t making it out of this.

You finally looked at him. He leaned in, “What happened to your eye?” A slender finger gently tilting your chin upward.

Lie. 

You thought too long for an answer. Why were you getting worse at lying? It used to be one of your best shields and swords but now you were so slow on the draw you were left defenseless. Vulnerable. His hand took yours, gently pulling you into the lobby and through the glass doors of the theatre.

Under the bright lights of the marquee and the street lamps, Alastor inspected your face. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, wetting it in his mouth before wiping the makeup off of your under eye.

“Alastor, people are staring.” 

His eyes fell down, soft hands lifting your arm where a bruise was already formed. You hadn’t noticed that one.

“What happened?” He wasn't looking at you when he said it, instead cautiously wiping the makeup off your cheeks in search of more marks.

“The truth or wh-“

“Always. Never give me anything else.”

You sighed, and explained, “Tommy, the manager, he’s been shifting tactics for bringing in money because he owes some big bads a lot of debt. Private shows with performers that sometimes get hands on…,” his hands stopped moving but his eyes didn’t meet yours, “I never asked to be included in it. I wouldn’t do it. I was rude to a man Tommy introduced me to and I ran off Saturday. Yada Yada. He got me as soon as I got to work.”

Alastor didn’t reply, just turned on his heels and marched back into the theater. You chased after him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles!” You tried to get in front of him but he walked right past you.

“Not about what you need, dear, it's about what he deserves.” 

Alastor asked the bartender for Tommy, who pointed to the short but stocky man talking to a group of guests. Alastor approached so quickly Tommy didn’t have time to greet him, instead just backing up until he fell ass first into a booth. Alastor boxed him in, one hand on the wall and one on the table, towering over Tommy as he sat.

“I hear you sell dancers by the night.”

You paced the lobby nervously. Would you be fired? What would Alastor say? Would Tommy hit him, too?

He re-emerged, “Come to my car, please.” He didn't stop walking as he said it. 

You followed a few blocks down to his car, parked on the street. He opened the passenger door for you and closed it behind you. You wanted to ask if you were going somewhere, but thought better of it. A tight u-turn, he pulled the car into the side street where you’d first met each other.

Wordlessly he got out of the car, you opening your door before he could. Popping the trunk, he set the folded canvas inside a paper bag. Checking first, he placed it inside one of the tin trash cans. 

You stood, waiting for an explanation.

Finally he stopped and made eye contact with you. “You have a date tomorrow, with me. Bring this to the apartment above the theater before Tommy and I arrive.” Opening your mouth to speak, he didn’t stop to let you add anything. “Preferably near the bed.” He closed the trunk, “Wear red, please.”

You searched his face for some kind of discernible emotion but found none. Those constricted pupils again, an animal staring back at you from behind a pair of glasses. There was no reason to ask him, it was obvious what was going to happen. Did you want to stop it? 

Did you want to see it? Alastor at work?

“Okay. On all the points.” You looked back at the trashcan, “Canvas hidden near the bed. Wear red.”

“The extra clothes can go anywhere out of sight.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your voice cracked a little, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”

He nodded, “I can’t stay here.” Before getting into his car he turned and added, “Don’t cover the bruises tomorrow. He should see them.”

You nodded in return, “Are you doing this for me?” So quiet you almost hoped he didn’t hear it.

He paused, one leg already in the car and his back to you, “No. I’m doing it for everyone.”

You watched his car light up and leave the alley.

It’s not that you felt abandoned, you felt…. Stranded. You had to go back in there, alone, and put on the normal act but under abnormal conditions. 

So it was happening. You hadn’t seen the first time. Just felt it. You didn’t see the second. You were going to actually see a man die. Not just a man, someone you knew. Someone you used to consider a friend of sorts. Before he got into whatever trouble was driving him to act like a flesh peddler. Could you do it? Could you watch a man be killed? Was that even what Alastor had planned?

Tommy found you the second you were back in the room, hand pressing too hard on the bruises he left on your arm. “You have a meeting tomorrow after your show. If you don’t show up,” he yanked you close, putrid breath of dead teeth you’d never been bothered by before this moment and bad booze assaulting your senses, “I will fucking kill you.”

You almost started laughing, bringing your hand to your mouth to hide your smile. “Okay Tommy.” 

Fuck it. He was going to die anyway, might as well make it a date. 

Ruth saddled up beside you as soon as Tommy was out of earshot, “Look at that smile. Quickie in the alley?”

Disgust, “Jesus, Skye, I was gone like, 5 minutes.” She shrugged. “Why does everyone think — is everyone fucking their daddies* in the side street?” She nodded. “Well, I’m not.”

“Prude.” She joshed before linking your arm in hers again, “We’ve got at least another hour of schmoozing. Tits up!”

Your smile came effortlessly that night, a thrum of excitement keeping you light on your feet. Not excitement for death, but for the very concept of being closer to Alastor. Would you see it happen, in front of you? Or would he have you leave? Either way, you were an active participant with a task list.

He trusted you, even if in a small way. Trust was so rarely given from the people who mattered. Men trusted you often; to be sweet when they tell you they were embarrassed about something, to lie when they ask if you orgasmed, to not steal their cash when they blacked out with their pants still on. Pulling it from strangers was one of your greatest pleasures. But it was easy. You were skilled. 

Yet again, like so often now, Alastor was the exception. He didn’t toss himself at your feet. He stood tall in front of you and on his own terms offered you the things you wanted. You didn’t have to pretend to be demure, you didn’t have sit on his lap in silence and nod and laugh. Just yourself, as much as you could allow yourself to exist in the world. No tricks. If his trust was presented wrapped in a bloodied bow, well, you would thank him dearly and wear the ribbon round your neck like a trophy.

Many men spoke to you, but luckily your participation in conversation wasn’t something they really cared about. As they spoke, your eyes were looking past them and into the future. 

However there was a sense of dread when you lied in bed that night. The excitement of getting closer to Alastor had melted into the fear there was no going back from this. 

Something in your chest stung, a thorn growing from somewhere unknown. Three encounters (that he knew of) and already it seemed your thoughts were more Alastor than yourself. No person had ever made such an impression before. You didn’t like it, but it made you happy. Which is why you didn’t like it. Tying your happiness to another person was a reckless thing to do. You’d seen your mother and half sister both use a man’s attention as a replacement for being happy with themselves and it made them brittle and hollow.

Thinking of what would happen the following night, oddly, you were reminded of losing your virginity. You were a “late bloomer” and were terrified you’d never be you again after. Like something would be taken from you. You fell asleep to that thought, of what you’d lose.

Then you woke, uncharacteristically early, feeling none the bit rested. No dreams. No nightmares. A few seconds of darkness and suddenly it was morning. With the extra time you had you wandered into a department store before going to the theater.

When a sales woman approached you, asking what you were looking for, you were too tired lie.

“A red dress.” You didn’t have the makeup at home to cover your marks, and gave up being worried about it. 

Unfortunately, it seemed it wasn’t so odd of a sight; a woman with a black eye.

“What’s the occasion? Apology dinner?” The woman fidgeted with the hangers while looking at you.

You grimaced, “No, a murder.”

She howled, “You are a hoot! Don’t we wish, huh? Let me pull you some options.”

You put the dress on the top of the paper bag, having hidden it under your make up table the previous night. Your fingers were trembling, applying your makeup needing deep breaths and concentration.

“Ruth, can you do my lips?” You turned and handed her the brush. 

“The eye looks better.” She took your chin in her hand and painted your mouth a pretty shade of red.

“Thank you.” You offered her a smile but she didn't let go, “What?”

“You ever seen a cornered raccoon? Like one got in the house and your mom boxed it into a corner with a broom?”

A nod, yes, actually, you had.

“Who’s got the broom?” She asked. You knitted your brow, not understanding. “Who’s got you in a corner? Is it Tommy?”

You took your chin back, deep breaths. “No brooms. No corners. Just rattled still from last night.” Not a lie, surprisingly. “You thought of a raccoon? Really? Is it because of the eye?”

When you took your bow for the evening and turned to escape the stage lights for the darkness of backstage, you found Tommy leaning just outside the dressing room.

“Get changed, doors unlocked upstairs. Room 504.” 

Grabbing the paper bag you ran through your mental checklist. Wear red, take off your make up, hide the canvas by the bed. An odd to-do list for murder.

The theater had two floors of modest apartments above it, the owners keeping two of the open for the theater’s use. One was for the owners should they ever visit New Orleans, and the other was multi use. Storage and a crash pad for performers or Tommy when he worked late.

The bag crinkled as you hugged it, looking over the small apartment. Boxes, decorations, a modest kitchen and a bed. The bathroom was quite large, a tub and shower head. Was this where the other performers went?  

Why hadn’t anyone said anything sooner? Why didn’t anyone leave yet?

Taking a second, you got to work. You opened the canvas and slid it under the bed, the smallest bit of edge sticking out for easy retrieval. Dizzy with the quickly settling reality of what you were doing, you sat on the floor for a moment. Trying to calm your breathing, you closed your eyes.

The fear of the unknown was suffocating you. There was a possibility Alastor failed and ended up hurt. Or, that he changed his mind and Tommy left you two to just hold hands on the bed for a sex-appropriate amount of time.

You patted your thighs and stood up. No time now for a panic attack. Alastor had a change of clothes in the bag, neatly folded and tied in twine. They were set onto the shelf above the closet.

And finally, yourself. Your dress was on and you stopped to wipe the make up off your face in the bathroom mirror. Still bruised, still nasty. The dress was nice though, carrying some of the weight for your battered mug. Red cotton, sailor neck and little gold buttons down the front. Flashy, brighter than the dark number you usually wore.

Would he like it? Most men looked for how a dress accentuated your curves (or hid them) but you had a feeling Alastor didn’t care so much about that.

You took your seat at the edge of the bed, thin mattress sagging from your weight.

The clock ticked, until finally the door opened and you saw something you hadn’t seen before and knew you’d never see again. Tommy and Alastor.

“Here she is. Autumn, this is Mr. Cerf. He's asked I stay in the apartment, apparently word of your attitude already spread among the upperclass.” Tommy wagged his finger at you in a playful way that was entirely out of place.

“Look at her. Pouting. Not very excited, is she?” Alastor smiled at you, softly. You felt for a second that maybe you entirely misunderstood. He looked calm, normal. Even peaceful.

“It’s always nice when they fight a little. But she won’t cause you any trouble.” Tommy patted Alastor’s back, who immediately shirked away.

“Do you like it when women try to fight you off, Tommy?”

A dry laugh, “Ya know how it is. They gotta act like they don’t like it so people still respect ‘em.”

A hum. Alastor’s smile falling entirely. A shadow settled over his face. “I see. That does make things easier.” He slipped on his short black gloves. “I always tell her she looks lovely in red. She rarely listens to me, but I’m happy to see she did tonight. It’s a special occasion.” 

Once, you thought. You didn’t listen once. 

Tommy nervously chuckled, looking from Alastor then to you, “What?” Alastor grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing him to the ground and onto his knees. Hand fisted in his hair, knife pressing across his throat. 

Alastor dug his knee into the small of Tommy’s back, “Tommy, I think you owe the lady an apology.” You let your feet find the edge of the canvas and slid it out with a kick. It glided across the wood and stopped where his knees met the floor. 

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry.” Tommy was staring at the waxed fabric in front of him. 

You felt your eyes sting with tears, a smile breaking out against your will. “For what?”

“I—,” his eyes searched the room for an answer, your words bringing a pulse of Deja Vu, “It’s about yesterday?” He seemed to relax a little, “Come on. I said sorry. ” Looking back to Alastor. “I didn’t know she had a guy.”

Alastor yanked his head back to look him squarely in his eyes, “Wrong answer.” He pushed him down onto his stomach, “Come on Tommy. I like when my victims fight a little, too.” Sensing the taller man towering over him with the knife, Tommy scrambled onto his back to look at Alastor. Tommy started shouting, “Hey!! Someone!” But there was no one to hear him. That was the beauty of the space he always brought his dates to; it was too loud to hear anyone scream. 

Funny how that works both ways.

Alastor shrugged, “Well that didn’t last long.” As Tommy backed up, trying to get traction on the slippery canvas and failing, Alastor straddled him. Tommy’s hands came up, one pushing against Alastor’s face, the other against the arm holding the knife. Alastor put both hands onto the knife’s handle, staring down into Tommy’s eyes as he inched closer to the man’s neck. “You look scared, Tommy. Are you scared?” 

The other man shouted, eyes trembling as he watched the knife come down.

Alastor pushed through, metal sinking into Tommy’s throat. No pause, he withdrew and sank it again and again. Tommy’s hands fell from Alastor’s face, flailing slightly at his neck before slumping down. He was frenzied, stabbing at his chest and upward with wide eyes. You recognized those constricted pupils. They made sense in this setting. Alastor was panting, taking a second to split the skin from ear to ear in the middle of his melee. 

You brought your knees to your chest, watching the crime unfold. Was this anger for you or truly for everyone? No one ever got so angry for you before, if you could be so conceited as to say this was for you. Your mouth opened and you spoke without thinking, no filter. “You look like an angry God. A jazz demon of wrath.” You smiled, the morbidity not lost on you.

Alastor stopped, frozen as he stared at you. For a second, he had forgotten you were there. He was always alone during these hobbies of his. Until recently. You looked like an angel in red and gold. Had he dyed your heavenly robes crimson? Or had you been made that way?

He dropped the knife, peeling his gloves off and stepping over Tommy’s decimated torso before kicking off his shoes.

You scooted back onto the bed and opened your arms, welcoming a strange after-kill cuddle. Your reward.

Alastor took off his bowtie, then his shirt. It took you a second, not realizing what was happening until he began to unbuckle his belt. “Now?!” 

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“What the fuc— okay,” your hands flew to unclasp your stockings and roll down your panties. You mumbled to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

As he crawled over you, warm gloveless hands tracing along your legs, hips, waist, you looked at up him with your now dilated pupils, “It’s murder? You need murder?”

He laughed, embarrassing you a little, “No it isn’t that.” His face nuzzled into your neck, “You’d go to hell? For me?” 

You froze, you hadn’t really seen it like that.

“You’d damn your eternal soul,” his hips pressed into you, an unfamiliar hardness there that made you gulp, “just to spend time with me?”

How were you so heated over an erection? A dime a dozen, men practically threw them at women who offered them the slightest smile. Yet feeling him so hard against you, something you had been practically praying for, made you weak. A trembling virgin all over again. 

Don’t lie, he always told you to be honest so you decided to try it out even if it made you feel at risk of harm. Your hands slid up and into his hair, gripping gently, enough to elicit a groan from him, “Well I was worried heaven wouldn’t have jazz, so… yeah.” You had to always say something a little in jest, to hide from the vulnerability of honesty, “This seemed like a better option.” The truth was, if you had to state it plainly, you would dive head first into hell in exchange for his smile. To hear his laugh. To feel his breath over your mouth. You were quite sure hell was more your scene, anyway.

“I’ll be sure to fill your afterlife with jazz every day, dear.” 

How could he make hell sound so sweet?

“It’s a deal.” Fingers playing with his hair, basking in the warmth of skin on skin. 

He leaned up, eyes scanning your face as he always seemed to do in these intimate moments. The feeling spreading down his chest was one wholly foreign to him, one he was struggling to put into his own words. You hadn’t run away. You opened your arms for him even still, welcoming your own damnation in exchange for… affection? Attention? Him? The reason didn’t matter, not to Alastor, and not now to his growing need. You didn’t even push him for more than he wanted to give, not yet needled him for details, secrets, sex. Could you really just be there for Alastor? Take him for what he was and what he wasn’t?

His mouth was salivating at the thought you’d give him anything. Reality was, you already had. His finger caressed the purple welt on your cheek. You were given pain and he returned it ten fold to its owner. A demon of wrath. He felt his cock twitching, underwear tented around him. 

You smiled up at him, wiping a little streak of blood from his jawline, “You look quite pretty in red yourself.”

His head came to rest on your collarbone with a shaky sigh.

Had you said something wrong? 

“Please, you’re already pushing me to my limit.”

Making a show of it, you zipped your mouth and pretended to toss the key. You wanted to reach down and pull off his remaining bit of clothing, to rub yourself against his manhood. But, you weren’t sure if that was something he would appreciate. You didn’t want to ruin his experience, to make him regret offering you something he so clearly didn’t need to give.

He removed his underwear, watching you unbutton your dress and pulling your arms free. Your bra, garter, and stockings were still on. Somehow he found it more scandalous than if you were completely naked.

Your breath was shaking, uneven as the excitement took control of you. There was a not totally unfounded fear you'd black out from hyperventilating.

Alastor lined himself up with your heat and pressed in, making a hard to decipher face as his brow knit up and he bit his lip. You were already so wet, not a hand or mouth needed from him. He wondered if you shared more than an acceptance of justified homicide; your body so relaxed and welcoming to him. 

With a few shallow thrusts, he was fully sunk into you. You may have let out a cry. An emptiness you hadn’t clocked was suddenly gone. Was this what Zeus meant when he said the two souled humans were too powerful and tore them apart to weaken them? 

Was this sex, or love? The word made you nervous. But—- if he offered it to you in both palms, you’d suffocate yourself in his hands.

He began to move in earnest, thrusting in and out slowly. You had expected the frantic moves of a horny virgin. Instead he was moving with control, hips rolling into you like waves gentle and steady where the lake met land, not slamming like many men before him. 

Had it been any other dick, you’d whine and begin moving yourself against it for that needed speed. This was Alastor. Dripping pleasure into your open mouth like a drought-breaking summer shower.

You didn’t recognize your own sounds, already panting and moaning as a warmth spread from the place where his cock was sliding around inside you.

Alastor tried to keep calm. Even when his body was sensitive, he wasn’t used to the mental work needed to fight off his orgasm. Usually he had the opposite issue, struggling to stay focused enough to finish. Mind wandering to more productive chores. 

But you were so wet, so accepting in body and mind. He watched your eyes close, one hand gently clawing at the blankets, the other reaching down to touch his lower stomach every time he thrust back in. For the first time in a very long time you really truly wanted to remember who was at the other end of the dick you were enjoying.

Languid moves. Swollen cockhead hitting the bottom of your walls, the top, the end, pushing still a little further.

“I’m sorry,” Alastor leaned down over you, kissing at your jawline, “For making you wait so long for so little.”

His rhythm picked up then, burying himself deeper into your sopping cunt and dragging out enough to pull back that quiver of his release.

You shook your head, lips tingling. “Nothing little here.”

He attempted a laugh, losing his breath. He wanted to last longer, to make the experience worth your while but he could feel you dripping down his balls and it weakened him with alarming efficiency. Finally the frenzied speed you witnessed earlier was turned to you, you brought your legs up, holding at his sides. “Darling I need to-,” he moaned into your ear.

“Please stay.” You clung to his neck, nails grazing at his shoulders.

Alastor’s voice was soft and sweet, a small moan and a gentle grunt. His legs spread more, trying to get every centimeter of himself into you. Hips now grinding in a small circle, but not losing any of the comfort of your warmth. You felt him still pumping that welcomed heat into you, and you tightened around him, drawing out your own moan. He hissed, “Sensitive.” Your legs were shaking like leaves in a storm, no orgasm but the pleasure nonetheless intoxicating.

The front of your brain felt like static, perhaps from the lack of oxygen as you had uncharacteristically lost your breath under Alastor. 

Like losing your virginity, after the fear faded and you were able to find a moment for introspection, you found yourself larger than before. The edges of your canvas expanded out, new parts of yourself unfurling for you to explore. Nothing had been lost, only gained.

Alastor kissed at the dark circle under your eye, at the bruise of your cheek, he lifted your arm and kissed gently at the purple and blue spots there too. He had lied, and he wasn’t sure why, but maybe he’d find the will to admit it to you someday.

He had left yesterday to keep from strangling Tommy in the center of the theater, finding himself in a rage. He rarely felt anger. His killings always about retribution, about karma, about righting the scales. He needed to leave to keep from losing his composure.

He lied to you in the alley, unable to look you in the eye when he did it for fear you’d see it. You always seemed to see him with a clarity others didn’t despite such a short time together. He struggled to hide from you and it was as exciting as it was frightening. A testament to your similarities.

He hadn’t done it for everyone. No. His personal moral code fell to pieces when he saw your bloodied eye and bruised skin. He would have killed Tommy even if he had been a good man, even if you’d been the instigator. None of his murderous rules mattered. And it scared him. 

(Next Part Next Week, orz)

*slang for boyfriend, often a rich one

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay /

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

[duuhrayliegh]

bartender!eddie x dancer!reader

just an idea i’ve been tossing around, lmk what yall think!!!

okay but imagine that eddie munson finds himself at a burlesque lounge on the sunset strip. he’s immediately entranced by the energy and the music and the women. he absolutely had to get out of hawkins so he made the trek to LA, hoping to find some smidgen of fame with his guitar skills. instead he finds burlesque. he finds the dancing, the jazz, the women, the drinks, the overall ambience and he just knows he has to be apart of it. so he finds the band manager, begs for an audition for the band only to be redirected to the owner who denies his request but offers him a position as a bartender. does he want to be serving drinks? no, but it’s a foot in the door.

so he stays, serving drink after drink, longing to be performing in the band, performing for the hundreds of customers that pay the overpriced cover charge of the burlesque lounge. he makes it a weekly habit to ask if the band needs coverage for the guitarist, and every week the band manager says no. so he falls into a monotonous loop, one that involves him creating cocktails, checking IDs, applying an almost ungodly amount of eyeliner (and subsequently never being able to get it all fully so he looks like a raccoon as he reapplies), acquiring a numerous amount of tattoos from his tips at the bar, continuing to write songs and aching to be on the band stage. 

all of this causes him to slump. he would never admit it of course. but he’s single, in his mid-twenties, working at a bar that is continuously packed with some of the most beautiful people he’s every had the pleasure of laying eyes upon. the best view on the sunset strip with no windows. no way out. he’s slowly finding himself back in the monotony that he was trying to escape from in hawkins. he’s probably about two seconds from putting in his notice when you walk in.

you stroll in, hair bouncing against your shoulders, every bit of you looks like a dream. you stand in front of his station, eyes wide and watching the women dancing. you seem in a trance, the same trance that eddie was when he first witnessed the burlesque lounge. he knows it all too well. he can tell by your general vibe that you’re new to town so he offers you a drink “on the house, baby doll” you blush at the name, your shoulders raising in an effort to shrink yourself. “you from around here?” he knows the answer but he wants a conversation, a connection, a spark, something to make waves. “unless i’ve suddenly transported back to the land of cows and endless nothingness, no i’m not from here” “well dorothy, welcome to the land of oz” he toasts your drink before reluctantly returning to his job. 

two hours later, you emerge from the backstage area, an excited look dawning your features as you approach the bar again. “you might be seeing me around here more often mr. bartender sir” his eyebrows shoot to his hairline as he cleans the wine glass in his hand. “and that would be because?” he prompted your answer while swinging the white towel over his shoulder. “because i have a dance audition” “oh you dance baby doll?” “mostly in the mirror at home, but i know that i can learn really fast” “that what you told ol’ nance up there?” “i did, and she agreed to at least let me audition” he leans against the bar top, his hands coming to rest just beside yours on the dark grain wood. “you’re ambitious, anyone ever told you that?’ he watches your lips curl into a beaming  smile, clearly praise looks good on you “i tell myself that every day” 

your finger taps the tip of his nose before you bounce off the barstool. he watches as you flit out of the door of the bar yelling a quick goodbye over your shoulder. he realizes now that his life is about to get a whole less monotonous with you around and he can’t help but smile about that. 

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Sugar Mama Chapter 3

Summary: Bucky is overworked and struggling to get by.  The bills are piling up and he’s consistently in the red with no end in sight.  Y/N is a billionaire’s daughter, entrepreneur and philanthropist having a hard time finding true friends or love.  She has a proposition for him. 

bucky barnes x curvy!reader Warnings: eventual smut, sexual assault (not from Bucky)

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The next day Bucky called Steve and invited him and Peggy to the burlesque club with him and Y/N.  Steve sounded skeptical still, but accepted the invitation.  “I look forward to meeting the boss,” he said.  Bucky rolled his eyes but was happy he accepted.

As they got ready later that night Bucky found himself wearing an outfit that he would have had to save for over a year to afford.  Y/N had bought him some nicer clothes for going out and he was looking rather dapper in a black suit jacket, a black turtleneck, black jeans and black boots.  She had mentioned something about liking his facial hair so he trimmed it instead of shaving.  As he zhuzhed his hair in his bathroom he heard her come out of her room.

“Are you ready Bucky?” Y/N called out from the hallway.

“Yeah I’ll be right there,” Bucky said, finally feeling okay with the state of his hair.  As he walked out of his room, through the kitchen and into the front room he stopped in his tracks when he laid eyes on Y/N.  She was wearing a flowy kaftan dress that was covered in different metallic layers of white, silver and a champagne color.  There were high slits on both legs showing her thighs peaking out as she walked.  She had black strappy heels on her feet making her three inches taller, and he noticed her toenails matched the champagne color on her dress.  Her hair was pulled atop her head in a bun that had pieces pulled out meticulously that framed her face and brushed her neck, and small gold and diamond hoops in her ears.  She turned to him as he entered and gave him a whistle as she looked him up and down.

“Wow, Buck, you look…I have no words,” she said as she walked towards him.  “I’m sorry if it makes me sound thirsty but you look ravishing, baby.”

Bucky’s cheeks felt hot as he blushed at her compliments and the pet name.  He gave her a shy smile.  “Thank you.  You look amazing, Y/N,” he said as he gave her a once over as well.  

She gave him a beaming smile.  “Thank you.  I have something for you,” she turned back towards where her small purse and leather jacket sat on the couch.  She rummaged under the jacket and pulled out a box.  “I hope you like it,” she said as she plopped the box into his hand.

Bucky gave her a suspicious look, making her laugh, before opening the lid.  His eyebrows shot up as he found himself staring at a gold signet ring with some engraved designs on the sides and a square white diamond set in the middle.  

“I hope it fits,” Y/N said quietly.

Bucky pulled out the ring and fitted it to his right middle finger.  “Jesus, Y/N, this is too much.”

“It’s not enough for you, baby,” Y/N cooed at him as she took his right hand and inspected the ring on his finger.  “It suits you.”  She quickly pulled him towards the elevator.  “Let’s get going.  We don’t want to miss your friends.”

After a short ride to the burlesque club the town car pulled up to the VIP express line.  Bucky quickly got out of the car and held his hand out for Y/N, who took it and seemed to visibly change in front of the cameras that started clicking as she came out.  Her relaxed demeanor was now charismatic, a smirk on her face as she faced the cameras and gave them a cocked eyebrow.  She looped her arm around Bucky’s back as he faced the cameras with her, unsure of what to do other than smile and try to not be blinded by the flashing lights.  A moment later she pulled him towards the front door of “Neon” as the photographers called her name and she waved to some of the people in the regular line who called out to her as well.

“Bucky!  Buck!!” Bucky whipped around to the sound of his name.

“Steve!  Hey!  Y/N,” Bucky pulled at her hand.  She quickly turned around and looked where he pointed and smiled.  She moved to the Bouncer and whispered in his ear.  He quickly nodded and pointed to where Steve and Peggy stood, waving his hand for them to come forward.

“Thank you, Thor,” Y/N gripped the Bouncer’s forearm and then reached out to Steve.  “Steve, what a pleasure to meet you.  I’ve heard a lot about you from Bucky.”

“Good things, I hope,” Steve eyed Bucky warily but gave Y/N a striking smile.  “This is my girlfriend, Margaret Carter.”

“Peggy, please,” Peggy corrected him as she shook Y/N’s hand.  “I’m a big fan of yours, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Just Y/N is fine, Peggy,” Y/N smiled wider at her.  “I’d love to chat, but let’s get inside and out of the way.”

Everybody followed her inside.  The moment she walked in, the owner was by her side, greeting her warmly and offering her the VIP booth.  She accepted and led everyone upstairs.  The music and the neon lights were mesmerizing as Bucky felt like he was whipping his head around to take in all the sights of the bustling club.  When they were seated Y/N ordered drinks for everyone and then finally sat back into the loveseat she was at with Bucky, letting her charismatic guard down.

“Whoo, I hope you don’t mind, it’s just a lot sometimes,” she said, looking at Steve and Peggy.

“Not at all,” Peggy quickly agreed.  Steve just watched Y/N carefully.  Bucky nudged his foot, making Steve glare at him.

“You don’t trust me, Steve?” Y/N asked.  She didn’t say it accusatorially, rather as an observation.  Steve’s eyes widened.

“Uh, it’s not that I don’t, trust you, Y/N, I just…um,” he floundered at being called out, unsure of what to say.

Y/N laughed jovially.  “I guess I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t trust me either.  He’s your best friend, like brothers, I get it.”  She held Bucky’s hand and squeezed it.  “I hope we can all be good friends, though.  I have no ill will or bad intentions towards him, pinky promise,” she held out her free hand, pinky pointed upwards towards Steve.  He snorted and surrendered his pinky to loop with hers.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.  I’m sure you’re great–”

“You just don’t know me yet.  But don’t worry, I’m all bark and no bite,” she flashed her teeth at him then laughed again.  A song came on that made her jump in her seat.  “Oh!  Peggy come dance with me!”

“Okay,” Peggy laughed and stood up to join Y/N just a few feet away in an empty space as the next burlesque dancer came out on the stage and did her routine.

Steve scooted over to Bucky as the girls danced nearby.  “So, she seems fun.”

“Hm,” Bucky barely acknowledged him as he watched them dance and laugh together.  As the burlesque dancer’s set progressed they cheered her on.

“Buck, I’m not trying to be mean,” Steve sighed.

“I know, but you’re not exactly being nice, either,” Bucky finally looked at him.  “I know this is weird, the whole thing is weird.  I still barely know her.  But I wanna see where this leads me.  I have a good feeling about it…about her.”

Steve nodded, a knowing look in his eye as he looked Bucky up and down.  “You look nice, gift from mama?” he glanced at Y/N.

Bucky laughed, “Yeah.  She likes to spoil.”

“And the ring, wow,” Steve grabbed his hand and looked at it.  “You lucky dog.”

“Ah come on, punk.  I already feel like I’m showing off too much.  As nice as it all is,” Bucky said quietly, not wanting to offend Y/N.

“No, it's cool, man.  You deserve this.  You’ve been working really hard for a long time, this is a good break for you.  And honestly, she seems fun, and nice.  I hope it all works out for you,” Steve complimented him.  “Just don’t forget about us little people.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.  “Never,” he promised, giving Steve a fist bump.

The girls came back to them a moment later.  “Steve!  Peggy was telling me that you’re an artist!” Y/N said as they sat back down, the next dancer coming to the stage.  Their drinks were delivered and she took a small sip.

“Oh, uh, yeah, just some freelancing on the side mostly,” Steve said, glancing at Peggy.  She gave him a wide grin.

“He’s very good, Y/N, he’s just embarrassed and doesn’t know how to network himself very well, yet,” Peggy patted Steve’s arm gently.

“Well, I’ve been looking for a new piece to hang in my room.  My former designer picked it out and I just don’t like it, no offense to them,” she gave him a sheepish smile.  “Would you mind coming by my place soon and maybe we can discuss some options?”

Steve’s face lit up as she spoke.  “Yeah, yeah that sounds amazing.”

“Wonderful, let me get your number…you, too Peggy!  We’ll have to have dinner soon,” Y/N said as she passed her phone over to them.  They both eagerly put their information into it.

Bucky smiled as the night wore on, Y/N being friendly and accommodating to his friends, and telling him about the club and what work had gone into getting it ready and what her role as key investor was.  The dancers were amazing, the music and the drinks flowing as they all danced and sang along and cheered for the dancers.

It was the early morning hours when they decided to call it quits.  As they headed out the front door some straggler photographers snapped pictures of Y/N as she said goodbye to Steve and Peggy.  “Text me!” she whisper-yelled to Peggy as they both smiled giddily to each other before she hugged Steve then took Bucky’s hand and headed towards the car waiting for them.

“Y/N!  Who are your friends!?”

“Is this a new boyfriend, Y/N?”

“What’s your name, man?”

They quickly jumped in the car and took off.  She leaned back into the seat next to him, stretching her legs out as best as she could and sighing heavily.

“Are you alright?” Bucky giggled, seeing her tired face.

“Yeah, my feet are just killing me,” she groaned.

“Here,” Bucky gingerly pulled one of her legs up and reached for her shoe, unbuckling the heel and setting it next to himself, then doing the same to the other foot.  Her legs were hoisted into his lap, making her angle her body weirdly in the car, but as he started rubbing her feet she moaned.  He laughed again, “Does that feel good?”

“Soooo good, baby,” Y/N sighed, her eyes closed and her head leaning against the car window.  Bucky then realized the position he was in.  Her legs were on full display through the slits in her dress and in his lap, making the dress hike up her thick thighs a bit so he could almost see up her dress and in between her legs.  He saw a flash of lacy black underwear and quickly focused back on her feet.  

“You okay?” she questioned him when he had stopped for a moment, opening her eyes and giving him a worried look.

“I’m fine, just got distracted,” he waved her off, rubbing the heels of her feet gently.

The car arrived at her apartment and he grabbed her shoes and slipped out, reaching for her hand to help her out of the car.  She limped a little as her feet met the sidewalk.  “Jesus, you had a little too much fun dancing,” Bucky said as she clung to his arm as he led her inside to the elevator.

“I haven’t been dancing in a long time, so sue me for having a little too much fun,” she joked.  “Plus, Peggy is fun.  It’s nice to make genuine friends.”

Bucky wound an arm behind her back as the elevator opened and they walked into her apartment.  “I’m sorry Steve was a little standoffish at the start,” he began.

“Don’t be sorry.  I completely understand,” Y/N interrupted him.  “I don’t blame him for being worried about his friend.  This sort of arrangement is still taboo, so I get it.”

“He seems excited to work with you, though.  Thank you for giving him a chance to do more art,” Bucky said.

“Oh it’s no problem at all.  I’m sure he just needs a little help getting out there,” Y/N waved off his thanks.  “I’m happy to do it.  And I honestly don’t like that piece on my wall.”

“Can I see it?” Bucky asked.

“Yep, come see the monstrosity!” she announced dramatically.  Bucky laughed as he led her into her room.  She stepped out of his embrace and sat on her bed, then pointed behind him.  He looked around to the wall facing her bed and grimaced.

“What the fuck is that?” he exclaimed.

Y/N laughed heartily at his reaction.  “That is an Igor Eugen Prokop painting.”

Bucky stared at it, his head tilting sideways.  “It’s a little, um…”

“Phallic?” Y/N giggled.

Bucky shook his head and looked away from it, rubbing his eyes.  “God, and you stare at that every night as you’re going to sleep?”

“I try not to,” she said.  “But it’s kinda hard when it’s staring right back at you.”

“No,” Bucky said, then walked over to the painting and pulled it off the wall.  He hid it behind the dresser that was sitting below it, making sure it was completely out of sight.

“Thank you, baby,” Y/N giggled again, then yawned.  “Oh god, okay.  Time to sleep,” she stood up and limped again.

“Maybe no heels next time,” Bucky offered her his hand, which she gladly accepted as he led her over to her closet.

“I got it from here, Bucky, thank you,” she patted his hand.  “You go to bed.  If I need anything I’ll yell at you.  Oh, and…” she stood on her tip toes and kissed his cheek.  “Thank you for coming with me tonight, and introducing me to your friends.”

Bucky beamed at her.  “Thank you for taking me.  And for the outfit, and the ring, and for being so great to my friends,” he rattled off, squeezing her hand lightly.  “I really liked the club.” She seemed to preen at him as he thanked her.  Bucky then made a split second decision and leaned forward and kissed her cheek.  Y/N’s mouth hung open as he pulled away, her eyes widening slightly before a small smirk graced her features.

“Goodnight, baby,” she said.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

@vicmc624 @mega-kittyglitter-1 @jtink27 @jenniferpendragon @redbloodedgurl

[dyouknowwhatimean-archive]

something weird video opener

the content offered by something weird runs the gamut of exploitation cinema. subgenres offered include films centering on burlesque and striptease shows, nudist exposes and features, drug and driver's education shorts, stag and peepshow loops, softcore and hardcore shorts and features, horror, particularly splatter films, sword-and-sandal spectaculars, spaghetti westerns...

[mollymauk-teafleak]

break it if I try convey it (chapter one)

More painter Husk AU! Very sorry to do this to you all right at the top of pride month but I promise the next chapter has the happy ending (...it just also has all the gnarly stuff too...) Huge thanks to @minky-for-short for beta reading!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

-----

Husk must have spent hours looking at Angel Dust by now. 

Millions of seconds had run through their fingers like grains of sand, so much time where the only purpose to Husk’s eyes had been to look at his model, his muse, his friend, his lover, cataloging every inch of him with monastic devotion. His hands had done the translating, turning what he saw into paint on the canvas but those tawny gold eyes had only looked, somehow making it seem that every moment was precious. Even back when they believed they’d have a lifetime of them. 

But Angel wondered if Husk realized that he was being watched in turn.

He knew for damn sure he’d never be able to make the kind of art Husk did, he couldn’t take the feelings inside him and create that kind of beauty. He could barely turn them into actions, it had taken him a painfully, wastefully long time to learn how to do even that much. But he had watched Husk for all those moments, sketching out the shape of the other man’s soul, not on paper or canvas but on something inside Angel himself. And Angel had slowly managed to convince himself that he’d found one truly good man. 

What had seemed like a one way street, like something being taken from Angel in that way he was exhaustingly familiar with, had turned into something very different, something he’d never imagined he’d be allowed. An impossible luxury, to just be allowed to look at each other and let love grow in those quiet moments. 

And if either of them had torn their eyes away from each other and thought to look at the world around them, the cold, cruel, unfair world they both knew but seemed to have forgotten, they might have seen it. 

They might have seen the danger coming. 

—

Husk was used to feeling like he didn’t belong in places. For Christ's sake, he was a black man who’d grown up poor and regularly breaking the law because of it, who’d always been keenly aware of his attraction to other men, he’d damn near made a career of feeling like he was about to be none too politely asked to leave a joint.

So when he’d received an invitation from Miss Charlotte Morningstar, written out in her own elegant, looping handwriting that spoke of years of education and practice in how to be polite, Husk had fully expected that he wouldn’t be allowed across the threshold of wherever she was asking him to meet her. Not that he could still fit into his nicest suits from way back when but even if he could, they were hardly up to those kinds of standards. 

So he ended up feeling like a bit of an asshole when he went to the address and found himself standing outside a modest looking little cafe, all warm light and chalkboard menus, young couples and families enjoying coffees and pastries. 

But he still had the question of why Miss Morningstar wanted to see him in the first place to chew over. She was a nice girl but she was Angel’s friend first and foremost, he did business with her but it had all been brokered through that connection, that strange, unlikely friendship Husk still didn’t fully understand. This felt more like a social call than a business one and yet Angel was at work, every spare second selfishly hoarded by Valentino as he choreographed a new burlesque show, the tacky varnish the pimp spread over how he made the real money. Apparently there were some high rollers in town, he hadn’t even spared him for any sittings that week. 

Husk was doing his best not to think about it. Wondering why he was being led by a smiling waitress on a weaving path through busy tables to the quieter booths at the back was a less painful task for his brain. 

If anyone on the tables nearby recognised the governor’s daughter they weren’t saying. Husk couldn’t exactly blame them, she wasn’t projecting high society with her blonde hair pulled up in a messy knot, the sleeves of her shirt dress pushed up to her elbows. Despite her best efforts there were still ink stains on them, as well as her hands and even on her cheek as she wrote furiously in a little notebook, shifting other piles of papers around her to read different snatches of what was on them before diving back into her writing. 

Her partner, Vaggie, looked slightly more put together, smiling fondly and patiently as she sat across the table and stopped papers from sliding over the edge. Her gun metal gray hair was pulled back in a thick braid, her tea dress bright and demure. You’d never guess she was armed to the teeth under that flowery fabric, that in between preventing paper avalanches she was scanning the cafe for any approaching threat, ready to pin it down on the point of her knife. Husk had painted her three times now and it had taken all those sittings to get her to open up even a little. Now she had, he found her bruised and battered, singularly devoted to her girl, rarely without her teeth bared. He liked her a lot. 

“Guess I’m a little overdressed,” Husk commented, aiming for light rather than abrasive and missing, as usual. 

Vaggie didn’t even flinch, she’d heard him approach of course, but her girlfriend looked up in delight, “You came!”

Husk gave her a nervous smile, sliding into the booth next to Vaggie, “I mean, you’ve been bankrolling me the last few months, Miss, kind of felt rude not to.”

“I’m still glad,” she gave him a sunny smile, “And I’ve told you, you can call me Charlie, all my friends do.”

Husk didn’t really know what to say to that so he just ordered a black coffee from the waitress that had shown him to their table, looking between the two of them and the piles of papers, “So what’s all this?”

“Oh!” Charlie turned her notebook to show him pages of scribblings that she probably thought made the situation perfectly clear, “I’m just putting together another funding proposal for my halfway house. I have meetings coming up with potential donors, thanks to my father, and the more prepared I am, the easier it’ll be for them to see why we’re such a good cause, right?”

Husk was as blindsided by her optimism as her kindness, feeling more in tune with Vaggie as she hummed drily, “You’d think. If that was the case we’d have a lot more donors by now.”

Charlie only had a fond smile for that, “So we keep trying…which is actually what I wanted to speak to you about, Husk. I was going to hire you.”

Husk grunted, nodding thanks to the waitress as she set his coffee down in front of him, “I ain’t ever been called charitable, Miss…Charlie. But I do have some experience in charming money out of tight fists, just not by any legal means.”

Charlie gave a slightly tired chuckle, though her smile grew a half inch or so at Husk finally using her name, “If we can’t get the roof fixed, I’ll keep that in mind…but no. It’s your artistic skills I’d be interested in.”

“Another portrait of your bodyguard?” Husk inclined his head towards Vaggie who scowled in a way that didn’t fully hide her blush.

Charlie’s smile turned soft, her hand flicking out to lightly touch Vaggie’s hand in a way that would still be acceptable between high society ladies, were anyone to glance over, but said so much more to those who really knew. Husk couldn’t help an absurd spike of bitterness on his tongue that had nothing to do with the coffee and everything to do with jealousy. 

“True, I’d never get tired of looking at them but I had something else in mind,” she smiled, “You’ve never been to my hotel have you? You’ve never seen where Angel lives?”

Husk was ready to bet there were few people in the city that had, though they’d all have heard of it. The building used to be one of the grandest hotels in all of New York, an ornate, fanciful monument to its golden age, to a time when buildings had stretched to the clouds and the money had seemed like it would never dry up. Of course the wars and the crash had come quickly to remind the city of its mortality, driving home that, for all their finery, they were just humans, always one step from being crushed under the weight of their own hate and greed. The hotel had closed and been left to rot, collapsing from an idol into a mausoleum. 

He wondered if Charlie knew the irony of opening a halfway house in a brick and mortar metaphor. He supposed it wouldn’t stop her, even if she did. Now renamed the Hazbin Hotel, she claimed it was going to be a place for people to redeem themselves, to heal and start over again. Well, the first thing that needed a bit of redemption was the building itself, most people walking past the place assumed it was still condemned. 

That was the place Angel had been calling home for half a year. It said a lot about living with Valentino that a place without a roof was the preferable option. 

Husk perched his chin on one knuckle, watching clouds of steam erupt from the surface of his coffee, “No…he keeps a lot close to the chest and I don’t blame him. Last thing he needs is that bitch Valentino hearing I’m showing my face around Angel’s home…he talks about you though. I know you’ve done a hell of a lot for him, giving him a place he can get clean, a bit of slack on the leash so to speak. And I know what that means to him, even if he doesn't always show it through the layers of brat.”

“Thick layers,” Vaggie grunted, not quite hiding the edge of pride in her voice. 

Charlie gave her a look of fond exasperation, “He means a lot to us too. He was our first resident, our only one for a long time actually but…seeing how far he’s come…it’s incredible.”

Husk cheated his throat a little, worrying the conversation was starting towards emotional depths he didn’t have a life jacket for, “So, uh, what is it I’m painting then, if it ain’t your novia?”

Charlie got the dreamy look in her eyes, the one Husk hadn’t needed to know her long to get familiar with. It was the expression that told him she was seeing some bright, golden future that scarred, spent old nags like him couldn’t see anymore. The kind of thing you could only see if you still believed there was some good in folk. 

Or if they have a countdown to their lover’s freedom painted on their wall.

Husk winced guiltily, thinking of the tally he and Angel were keeping, counting every scrimped penny and hidden dollar, a paint thermometer directly on his studio wall, rising incrementally taller with each day. The total at the top was the price attached to Angel’s contract with Valentino, grown bloated over the years as he’d proved himself a real moneymaker, cost of room and board, of food and drink and the drugs added to it so it would be a weight around Angel’s neck that he’d never be able to lift. Not without help anyway.

I ain’t asking to fix the whole goddamn world. Just a little scrap of happiness, just for him. 

“The outside walls of the hotel could use some brightening up, I think. I want people to look at us and know what we’re about, what we’re trying to do. So I thought, what about a mural?”

Husk raised his eyebrows, immediately interested in spite of himself, “Huh. I’m usually a strict paper and canvas man but I have some old friends that work the street art scene. I could ask them about materials and such. What kind of thing would you want?”

Charlie folded her arms, leaning in so Husk could clearly see the infectious spark in her eyes, “Well that’s where I’d trust you and your expertise, Husk. The way you paint expresses exactly what I want people to feel when they’re at the hotel, all that hope and joy and excitement about life.”

“Not usually how people describe me,” Husk admitted, suddenly feeling caught off guard, like she was peeking behind a curtain. 

“It’s what I see when you paint Vaggie. It’s what I see when you paint Angel,” Charlie insisted, “You see people, Husk. You understand them completely and you make it all into something beautiful. Not just the good parts either, everything. There’s something so honest about your art but so hopeful at the same time. Even if you feel like you’ve given up, I don’t think that part of you has. No wonder Angel trusts you, no wonder he…cares for you. I’d like a mural that gives people that same hope and shows them if it worked for Angel, it can work for them. Even if he isn’t there to tell them himself.” 

Husk caught that last phrase, stumbling over it, “What do you mean?”

Charlie’s eyes looked a little misty now, though her smile didn’t dim in the slightest, her hand disappearing inside her purse for an envelope. As she pushed it across the table, he saw his own name written on it, in the same looping hand as his invitation. 

“Your payment for the mural. I thought you would like it in advance this time.”

Husk had the distinct feeling of being in the audience for a magic trick, of knowing some grand reveal was coming, tasting it in the air, but held in that maddening. addictive anticipation of the world being more than you’d ever thought. It was a feeling he knew well, one he’d been desperate to master from the first time he’d met it, as a little boy sneaking into the back of tacky Vegas magic shows. He wanted to take the tricks apart like puzzle boxes, crack them open and peer inside, not realizing that once he did so, the spark of scared. He’d tried to shape that feeling into music, into art, into amber liquids in highball glasses, into dice in the palm of his hand. He’d chased it down into dark corners and off the edge of the cliff. And none of it had come close, none of it had been worth the pain. 

Not until he’d heard it in Angel’s voice. And that was a trick he still couldn't explain. 

No wonder his hands shook as he ran his thumb under the sealed edge. 

Husk was Vegas born and raised, he counted the stack of bills in thirty seconds flat. But still, he counted them again and again and again, not doubting his own abilities but the reality in front of him. 

“I…this…” his mouth worked but no coherent sound came out, his brain still reeling. 

“And before you start saying pendejada like you can’t accept it, we asked around, that's a reasonable rate for the amount of work she wants done,” Vaggie hummed, sipping her tea, “Call the rest a bonus for taking Angel off our hands.” 

“It’s enough, isn’t it?” Charlie’s voice was soft, hopeful, “Angel told me what you were trying to do, he mentioned the amount and I triple checked the math. That gets you there?”

“It is,” Husk croaked, still barely able to believe it, even as the words left his own mouth, “We have it.”

It took him a moment to realize Charlie had taken his hand, almost like his brain had decided there was some grand, cosmic mistake and kicked him out of the body that was having its dreams come true. Her touch was light, hesitant, ready to pull away if Husk flinched but it was there, something offered but waiting for him to take it. Almost as unexpected as the riches in the envelope, the first time in a long damn time that someone had offered him friendship. 

And if today had already proven itself impossible, why not take that too?

Husk lifted her hand to his lips gently, relying on etiquette skills that had gone to rust long ago, feeling rather like a knight kneeling before a princess, “Thank you. Saying that doesn’t feel like enough and, hell, if you ever think of a way I can pay you back, you just call. But thank you.”

“Well, you can paint me a mural?” Charlie giggled, her smile golden, “And…love him. Both of you, take care of each other and love each other and be happy. The way you both deserve.”

“Done.” 

Husk was used to making promises he couldn’t and never intended to keep, it was how he’d survived, how he’d made a fortune and how he’d lost it. So he knew the difference between those cons and the word on his tongue. There were no wires, no loaded dice, no cards up his sleeve, no swig of cheap whiskey to make him brave. He simply meant it, a magic he’d never been able to pull off before but, fuck, he was doing it now. 

He smiled, mirroring some of Charlie’s spark, “I won’t let you down. I won’t let him down.”

Husk didn’t think he could see the same bright future she did. But he was ready to look for it. 

—

He should have seen it coming. 

Husk would berate himself again and again, scourge himself with it until the day he was six feet under. The years he’d spent living one step ahead of his own terrible decisions, lying and stealing and cheating his way up and down the strip, they’d apparently been all for nothing. Because he’d learned rules back then, rules he’d sworn he’d never forget. Keep your eyes up. Keep your ears open. Never let your guard down. Always have a spare ace up your sleeve. 

He should have seen it coming. 

But he just kept climbing the stairs up to his little studio, oblivious, feeling nothing but the weight of the envelope in his jacket pocket and the dreams in his head. It would be torture, waiting until tomorrow evening, the first time Angel had been able to beg a break from rehearsals all week, and then only by reminding Valentino that Husk was doing the artwork for the new show’s posters. Already Husk knew he’d spent that time writing scripts in his head and tossing them into a mental trash can, versions of how he would tell his lover, how he’d give him the money, how to make it special. He felt like a young fellow nervously fidgeting with a ring box, picturing getting down on one knee for his sweetheart after a carriage ride through Central Park. 

Well, it was the closest they were ever going to get so he’d damn well enjoy it. 

But the moment Husk’s hand touched the doorknob, all those half formed dreams fled his mind, winking out of existence like a power cut had hit the marquees and billboards he was building there. And only one thought remained, flashing red in letters ten feet tall. The one rule he’d forgotten more than any other. 

If you feel like you’re on top of the world, brace yourself because you’re about to take a real bad fall. 

But Husk hadn’t even felt himself falling. He’d just hit the fucking ground.

The lock on the door was broken, not just broken but shot to pieces, edges left jagged like teeth bared, ready to bite. Someone had been in his studio and didn’t care if he knew. Husk didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know they weren’t run of the mill robbers, no back alley hoodlum came armed to do damage like that, cold and cruel but purposeful. Which left him with a very short list of very bad men.

He forced his breaths to come slow and steady, hand slipping into a secret pocket sewn into the lining of his jacket and coming back clawed with razor blades. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, trying to take the years off himself and become the man who’d lived through Midway and Okinawa, who’d cheated against every major mob outfit in Vegas and walked away, who’d gone up against guys twice his size and won. 

But he didn’t find any of those things behind the door. He found something worse.  

Husk would have said he didn’t have much in the world but he had to admit, it made an almighty mess. His studio had been taken apart, destroyed the way fists could destroy the face of someone they really hated. His easel had been snapped over a knee, there were bullet holes through the canvases on the walls, a chaotic mix of every color he owned vomited across the floor and thrown up the walls like a massacre of circus clowns. His brushes were snapped and splintered, whiskey bottles smashed to amber fragments, the ones with liquor still in them lit as fuel for a bonfire of his books. The door to his bedroom was ajar, giving a glimpse of more destruction there, his bed had been shredded with particular savagery. There was something almost childish about the ruin, something that spoke of a tantrum, a petty, recklessly swinging fist in response to a toy being taken away. 

That realization brought Husk’s list of names down to one, the one he’d been dreading most. 

Two things told him he was correct, as much as he didn’t want to be. The first he saw immediately, eyes dragged towards it past the ragged carcass of his humble life. Their tally on the wall had never gotten the chance to reach its goal, turpentine had been thrown over it, making its colors run and bleed, stripping it away. Like it had never existed at all. 

The second took him a little longer to notice, it was one scrap of destruction amongst so many. Husk supposed that was the point, he was only meant to find it when he felt like he couldn’t take any more, just to show that he could. 

They were lying where Angel would stand when he posed for him, a sad little pile of paper scraps, torn between cruel, vindictive fingers, a parody of confetti. Part of Husk didn’t want to pick them up, he knew what they were, why did he have to see it? 

But he did. He owed Angel that much. 

The scrap between his shaking fingers showed his lover’s pencil drawn smile, the rest of the face torn away to leave just this fragment of a happier time, one that was now a grimace of agony as he held it upside down to read the words scrawled across it. 

Husk knew this drawing, it was one of so many he’d done for Angel, little mementos of their time together smuggled back into the misery that was the rest of his life. When whole, it had shown him reclining back on Husk’s old sofa, loosely wrapped in a robe, flushed and grinning from the first time they’d ever made love. He’d done his best to capture the joy shining through in Angel’s eyes, in case that would be the only time they ever got to spend together, so he’d be able to take the memory with him. It was that act of love that had doomed them. 

Husk swallowed hard, only now reading those words cruelly carved across Angel’s mouth, like they were trying to shout over him. They weren’t a surprise but they were a blow to the stomach, enough to almost bring Husk to his knees.

You’ll paint me one last one, old man. My club, tonight, 11. 

Valentino.

[hey-must-be-a-devilbetween-us]

i know no one asked but my personal head canon is that aziraphale acts like a total slut and gets really close to having sex with some really interesting and influential and famous figures throughout history but is the legendary tease and never has sex with any of them but they are out here pining and writing poetry and making paintings and sculptures and aziraphale just gets a little chuckle out of it. ( i love her )

meanwhile crowley can't help but act like a total virgin like super shy and stuttering and blushing when anyone shows any interest in him but has had a lot of sex and small affairs through out history but its mostly pretty mediocre sex and its more about the connection and affection and not being alone then having mind blowing sex, (although the times at the burlesque show when all parties had labias is a noted exception.)

and they're all just normal people often peasants and then working class people that he is the only one who remembers them centuries later and he carries their memories around like little charms of times when he loved and was loved in return.

(they all also probably write poetry and make paintings and sculptures but they all get lost to history, or maybe aziraphale has a secret collection of peasant art pieces featuring crowley that hes found and they're ten times more precious to him than anything some stupid lord commissioned and maybe he trades the art pieces where he's the subject that are arguably worth more for the 'unknown artist' pieces of crowley but to him they're priceless because its evidence of times crowley has been loved and it a weird cocktail of jealously and happiness for crowley finding some love and affection that aziraphale knows he deserves but is too afraid to give him and oops i made a head canon post thats sweet inside a head canon post being feral and i'm in a loop and-)

[loopsisloops]

Is it wicked to say I adore feral loops after that certain post? 😉😉

Don’t tell her that, it’ll make her more powerful

She’s currently gnawing at the metal bars of her enclosure… I-I don’t know how long I can keep her there.

*sounds of metal creaking coming from the dark corner behind me*

I thought playing jazz music would help b-but now…now she’s going on about Loki x Reader AU!?!? Something about burlesque show girl!reader??? I-I don’t know!?!

*jazz record comes to a halt*

Oh shit! I’ll be back!

*I run towards the cage*

“NO! GET BACK IN THE CAGE! WE HAVE TO GO TO CLASS!”

[atomic-chronoscaph]

TGIF

[moonsrune]

for: cassie h. @prettygores

plot: nate asked cassie to meet him at the fright festival but hasn't shown up

location: a halloween themed bar

For the past couple of weeks, Jesse has been feeling lackluster. With Halloween around the corner, he wants to do something fun with the burlesque club. Therefore, he decided to attend the Fright Festival in hopes of finding a spark. He asked Olivia to be his plus-one, but she couldn't make it. Consequently, instead of feeling inspired, the only thing he feels is absence. Which is a feeling he should have been used to by now. He grew up traveling with his bigshot movie producer father, who left him alone in hotel rooms most nights. After approaching a Halloween-decorated bar, Jesse sits down next to a blonde and orders himself a non-alcoholic drink. As tempting as it is to break his sobriety, he tells himself it won't be worth it come morning. After ten or so minutes pass by, Jesse looks toward the blonde again. There's no way she's here alone too? He considers saying hello, but she would probably reject his greeting and think he's a creep. Jesse's never had a problem with women, but he's been in a rut and it was starting to make him feel worthless in every aspect of his life. After another five minutes, he convinces himself this is the only way to push through his mental blockage. Be bold, do something risky. Turning toward the blonde again, he leans in a little closer and opens his mouth, praying the words will come out sounding strong and confident. "If they keep playing the same three Halloween songs on a loop, I'm going to order a real drink..." he laughs, "what are you having?"

[powpowhammer]

@blotthis tagged me for ten songs I am vibing with. I confess to having a relationship with music listening that some would call 'lame' as I have basically never built a relationship to an artist or their body of work (except for john themountaingoats darnielle). I blame my boomer father for burning out those receptors in my youth by inadvertently filling my head with the entire beatles discography, leaving no room for me to become a teen who liked music for cultural reasons (I became a ska kid but because of other reasons). sorry I don't have spotify.

yerbatero (2010) - juanes. I am basically always listening to this song.

washington square (2011) - the correspondents. if you look up the music video it's exactly what you think a bunch of nerds into burlesque would make. I think it's good when something is horny but also sopping wet lame about it. this is the number one song I'd sing at karaoke if they had it but they'll never have it.

the rockafeller skank (1998) - fatboy slim. I put on this song on two weeks ago via free association and have been studying it ever since, mostly for its use of sample as instrumentation. (I went and also listened to all its samplees, too.) two things about this: 1) crit about this alludes to the existence to a uk-based genre called 'big beat' but all the writing about big beat just refers back to fatboy slim. cycle of internet ouroboros complete. 2) I imprinted heavily on the digimon the movie soundtrack.

careful with that hat! (2009? 2010?) - citay

the story in your eyes (1971) - the moody blues. ethan has a horrible tendency to fixate on the phrase 'from the ashes of the old' when we discuss reform versus revolution and every time he does I have to put this on. and then bap him with a newspaper

communication with the dead (2013?) - unclear. I think I would be much more into gabber than I am if I had had more freedom (financial, personal) as a young person. this song was made available for free but the links are defunct. if you want it in 320 message me

acid disco homegirls (2015) - the hair kid. I spend a lot of time on soundcloud but am deliberately not including here all the 45-second-to-three-minute soundclowns I love to accumulate because I respect my followers' time.

cadaver sniffing dog (2019) - the mountain goats. this is my favorite song from this album. I saw him on tour when he was debuting this material. the concert went on for twenty years. man simply has insane stamina

extremely online (2019) - mc frontalot. noone told me that he had an album out after question bedtime until like january this year. what the fuck. damian I love you

call ticketron (2016) - rtj. I was gonna put legend has it and then I was like. well we just had that echolalia post and the cadence of the live from the garden sample has definitely invaded my phonobulary

bonus - current work loop

let's tag some mutuals! some mutuals blot didn't already tag. mutuals who only have a normal amount of emotions about ace attorney. mutuals who love, and dream, and kill. @literallymechanical @waywardking @blasphemous-lies-and-deceit @relia-robot @falindrith @efortmanteau

[jellogram]

Incomplete list of phrases that play in my head on a loop

"My brother Boimler is in Bratislava"

"You the prettiest girl in this whole mcdonalds"

"Like it weren't the whiskey what he were tryna savor"

"Excitable bearded pagans and bisexual Barnes and noble employees who do burlesque"

[gurorori]

givin me afycso nostalgia can b so dangerous i once cried 4 an hour straight with time 2 dance live in denver video on loop cuz i cudn deal w the fact ill never b able 2 see the beauty of their burlesque/clown/cabaret dancer lives AN it was all so theatrical too like they don make concerts like dat anymore.

[sinistersinister]

pre-elimination/judging thoughts

not spoilers because i haven't seen the end yet

man the bants offstage are uncomfortable and stilted. performing sexy sex in front of a camera crew to me is like taking your dad to a showing of rocky horror. like you're reading a script hazbin hotel rejected for trying too hard.

i was not uncomfortable about the floor show. the floor show is great. that's the kind of uncomfortable i like. the floor show is campy.

my favorites from the episode: blackberri (who has up until this point been forgettable at best) and nio. their performances clinched it. throb i expected a better performance from given his burlesque background. but his costume was good.

ork is not particularly versatile as a performer, i don't think. but i adore that they tried to turn their shtick of 'goth art hamburger' into 'sexy sex worker from sex space,' without changing anything but the dialogue. because the result was fully fucking deranged and it was so antisexual it looped back around to hot. it was sexy in the way i find things sexy (aka, in a way that other people find repellent), and game recognize game. i think their outfit from last week was more sexy in the normal sense actually.

cynthia's full zentai suit was cute and wacky. not that sexual but i adored it anyway.

jay kay was Just Okay. as i said last week, i get neither the love nor the hate. they're fine.

i don't get the love for fantasia. her life story is fascinating but she looked like an erotically brave steven universe character

[dorotheaafawn]

all cities come to ruins and we go back again, to the villages that bore civilizations, so archaic and old; and amidst all progress of greatness and glories which city life holds, we forget often and seldom we think, yet humans are too reluctant to find their solace from within. The fruits in the trees and the farms with little lives thriving and running in fields, with children stealing berries of several kinds to a lifeless Kafkaesque loop of agony, disdain and unending dismay, a life adorned in concrete and glass windows and white collar jobs.

We lose our breaths and fights in each coming day, where we earn yet earning sells away our soul. Isn't it such a shame that even when we talk of living, we are barely aware of what it's truly like, and indeed that is the irony of being born in a place where houses are easy to find yet homes are difficult to make. And often I think, of painting a picture of a foregone place, of a life so different than mine in this cemented maze, a painting of flowers and open skies and of joyous maidens, carrying baskets of fruits and hair adorned in flowers– a life so burlesque in contrast to the reality we live ( or are forced to live) everyday, that it merely describes a movie or a novel instead, yet in this, we find light.