#but like I'm still not over the one time that I was singing on the annapantsu discord server

[bigidiotenergytm]

Hades, I have to know, how are they? The men who fell on the journey home to Ithaca? I'm not sure how time works in your realm, but I would hope they're not too traumatized by their deaths. I hope Polites hasn't forgotten how to smile, I hope Eurylocus doesn't blame himself.

Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, how does it work? Do they feel the pain of their deaths? Like. Does Polites still feel like he's being crushed? Does Elpenor have a sore neck? Is he still drunk? Man, imagine being drunk for the rest of eternity.

"The Soldiers of Ithaca. I'm assuming you do mean Odysseus's crew." — Which the names then confirm. "Yes... those men... 600 of them. Their arrivals were... surprising. Not every day, 552 souls gather in the Underworld. They were... — It was quite difficult. Especially to those who believed they had lost their lives far too soon. So much worry with all these men. Some worried about their families, but most... it was quite a phenomenon to see. So many souls looking right at each other with one singular thought.

What would happen to their Captain?"

As it explains how they reacted when their Captain's ship came into their river. Only trying to help, only trying to tell their King they were there... but this Land... it wasn't for mortal minds. Singing can turn into screaming.

"No, no. There is no pain here. You cannot hurt a soul. It, itself, can only damage over its lifespan. The souls are mere echoes of who they once were. In the bodies they're most comfortable in. But even an echo can change its tune. That is where I come in." A smile.

"Yes, as for those 600 men, they were tricky. Being Drowned Souls, no less. They could feel the further struggles of their Captain. Always calling to him... endlessly... Especially when the remaining 43 arrived together. They all never stopped. Nothing I could do could really calm them. Never losing their glow, but they all just could not forgive themselves. And then, one day, they... ... Drowned Souls. They're different from other souls. They—"

[just-some-random-blogger]

ONCE AGAIN A VICTIM TO MY OWN INABILITY TO CONSUME MEDIA FOR GOODNESS KNOWS WHY. A TRUE SHAME I HAVEN'T READ THIS SOONER BECAUSE IT IS BOP A BANGER A SHOWSTOPPER A STUNNER AND I AM IN NEED OF A NEW SET OF PANTS

The sun crested the horizon, shades of violet, clementine, and rose, and still, Bill and the others hadn't returned from Hogwarts.

Oh my GOSHHH 😫😫😫😫😫😫😭😭😭😭😭 I say this all the time but GOSHHHH you can really tell if a fic is gonna be good from the first sentence and how they open the story. I so fucking sorry for breathing the same air are you my goddess. Am I bothering you? Also wtf bill in Hogwarts???? Did he leave his homework or smth?

The full moon lingered at the edge of the sky, obstinate in its refusal to dip below the trees. You'd begged Bill not to go out while the moon hung bloated in the sky, an unusual, ominous shade of red.

If there's one thing a man does best is the exact opposite of what you tell him to. How many stories would be rewritten so drastically, how many lives would be saved if you just listened to women 🙄🤚 choke

But he'd gone anyways. Which was fair, you supposed; he wasn't yours to order about. You weren't a couple, despite the simmering tension between you, heightened by the deep connection you’d forged through over a decade of friendship and work and suffering and joy.

Situationship headass 🙄🤚 miss me with that bullshit. NOT THE WE ARENT A COUPLE I WOULD DEADASS ASK BILL WHAT ARE WE THE MINUTE HE LAUGHED AT MY JOKES ID RATHER BE PRESUMPTUOUS THAN BRAIN DEAD *STARTS CHAINSAW*

It was Harry, Lupin, and Tonks that arrived back first, bloodied and beaten, singed by the glancing blow of curses.

WAIT I KNOW THIS i don't BATTLE AT HOGWARTS? OK WE ARE SO ON TO SOMETHING (I've seen edits HAHAAH) it's fine it's ok I don't need background I understand perfectly

Molly ran out to them, screaming for her children, but Remus was quick to assuage her.

.... I know I shouldn't be thinking this but all in thinking is 🫦🫦🫦 hi rem... How are you... Want a baby?

“We don't have a choice,” Remus said, gently nudging Tonks aside and cupping your face. You forced your eyes to focus on his forehead, his crooked nose, his scars, his eyes. “Can you do this?” Remus asked.

OMG TONKS 🫣😅 HI NOT THIRSTING OVER OUR- EH- YOUR HUSBAND also dkskskksksn IDK WHAT I HAD TO SAY BUT HOT. IM TOO BIASED. REMUS I LOVE YOU WE LIKE DIS ��� but also tonks 🥺 shes so mother so caring and gentle. Remus being frantic and hot in my head is clouding whatever I wanted to fucking say about this part

No one was sure if he'd been bitten. There was one wound on his right thigh that looked suspicious to Remus, but Bill was in too fragile a state for them to test anything.

... Remus so smart.... 🫦 ITS NOT MY FAULT IM SO DISTRACTED

So you waited, and waited, and waited. Four days of burning fever. Four days of changing head-to-toe bandages. Four days of ladling broth between his chapped lips. Four days of praying to anyone that would listen to spare him. To bring him back to you.

Ok but this was beautifully vivid albeit torturous for YN... Is ok... It's for the plot shhhhh *pushes finger onto lips*

You knew he'd be different, no one suffered an attack like that and remained the same, but you knew that you'd love him anyways. The scars on his skin would pale in comparison to the scars left on his psyche, and you would find whatever strength you needed to help him through it.

Embutido core. Also 🧐🧐🧐🧐🤨🤨🤨🤨 FUCK YOU MEAN ALWAYS LOVE HIM???? UR NOT TOGETHER. GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS SITUATIONSHIP TRUTHER

You'd stitch him together with your own muscle and bone if you needed to.

Oh my gosh

But now that I'm remembering the situationship context.... Cringe as fuck

“Where is she?” He bellowed.

Its giving

MARTHA WHERE IS SHE LOL. I think supes says it tho

He groaned low in his chest, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and heaving a deep breath. His knotted muscles immediately went lax, and he looped an arm around your waist, hauling you into the bed with him. You were shocked at how much strength he still had after a week of bed rest.

First of all. HOT. second of all. SITUATIONSHIP AHHH FUCKIN

“There you are,” he whispered, a throaty purr against your pulse. He drew another deep inhale, nose pressed against your jugular, and you suppressed a shiver.

SNSIIDJSJKS SNIFFING??????????????

“Don't care,” he said, his lips charting a scalding path up your neck, days of stubble scratching mercilessly against the tender skin.

WKSKKSKKKSN WHAT ^^^^^ LAST GIF X2

“It can wait,” Bill snarled, glaring at Remus over your shoulder. “Now get the fuck out.”

OH

IS IT THE WOLF JUMPING OUT OF HIM.

OH WAIT I FORGOT TO ASK COS THE TAGS IS LIKE EARLY STAGES OF WEREWOLF FOR BILL I WAS LIKE HE CANONICALLY BECOMES A WEREWOLF??????? OR IS IT A FIC THING I'm realizing as I type this it's probably a fic thing.

ANYWAY BILL BEING JEALOUS? OF REMUS 🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 OK BUT DID YOU WRITE THIS FOR MEEEE TWIRLS HAIR SMILES LIKE SPONGEBOB WAIT ILL GET THE PIC

UHM THIS WASNT THE ONE I HAD IN MIND I WAS THINKING WITH A RAINBOW but I realized it was probably an amalgamation of a bunch of different spongebob images so yeah

Tonks caught you at the end of the hall, grabbing you by the arms. “He's asking for you, but you have to—y/n, listen to me,” she snapped, and you stilled, coiled and ready to flee. “You have to be careful—that kind of trauma…he might not be the Bill you love.”

🥺😭💔 NO CUZ IM CRYING FOR TONKS SHES SO GENTLE AND KIND AND CONCERNED AND WHAT WAS THAT LIKE TO LOVE REMUS LIKE THIS FKJDUDJDJDJ FUCKING HELL *smokes cigarette* (DONT SMOKE)

An uneasyness settled over the house. No longer a question of will he wake up, but what will wake up.

😃 nice 👍

On the seventh day, Bill woke up screaming.

POOR BOY. also I know some of these are out of order. I can't be bothered to reorder them let me slide ily

“Bill,” Remus said, hardening his voice.

🫦 he can join

You weren't sure what it meant, this sudden clinginess. If it was the trauma of almost dying, a head injury making him forget you weren't actually together, or something…else.

🙄🤚 u being hesitant is so telling of ur situationship. AT LEAST YOUR SELF AWARENESS

His family came in next, a cacophonous, emotional ordeal that made your heart ache with relief. With them, he seemed more like himself; the good-natured, charismatic man you'd fallen in love with, and some of your uncertainty ebbed.

My boy

But clearly not 🫵YOUR🫵 boy 🙄🤚

You hadn't hated the intensity from earlier though, quite the opposite, actually. You just wished you knew what caused it, and why you.

🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🤚 SITUATIONSHIP FINAL BOSS

Eventually, Bill declared that he wanted to properly shower, and everyone filed out to give him some privacy. When you stood to leave though, his hand tightened around your wrist.

BRUHHHHH SOMEONE PLAY SILVERSPINGS BY FLEETWOOD MAC. PLS SHES NOT STEVIE NICKS BILL IS 😭😭🤚 LORDIE

“Oh, I am. For probably the first fucking time,” he growled, patience wearing thin. “I’ve loved you for ten fucking years, and I almost lost you. So forgive me, darling, I will not be letting you go again.”

Ngl I'm a petty ass who's into schadenfreude and masochism I'd be like AKSHALY NO FUCK OFF 😭😭😭 (I need a lobotomy)

“Bill, we aren't…together,” you argued weakly, a rabbit negotiating the terms of its release from the jaws of a catamount.

IM SAYING WE BEEN KNEW and my gosh my gosh RABBIT ANALOGY???? INSANE WORK DAFAQ OK QUEEN SORRY FOR EVEN TRYING TO WRITE

“Something I'd like to remedy, if you'll have me.” His other hand ensnared your waist, pulling your body flush to his.

NO. EW YUCK. WHAT AM I EASY?

“Are you going to make me beg?” His breath fanned across your lips, balmy and disorienting. Headier than any hit you'd taken from a roll or a pipe.

Yes. I would make you wait and carve your heart out because you need to work for it this is happening too quickly (I SAY AS THEIR SITUATIONSHIP HAS BEEN FORGED A DECADE AGO 🙄🙄🙄🙄🤚🤚😭😭😭😭😭)

“I love you too,” you breathed, and he smiled, bumping his nose against yours before dragging it down your cheek, his hair tickling your lips.

Weak piece of shit 🫵 make him beg

“I know,” he hummed, —

POMPOUS PIECE OF—

— the hot muscle of his tongue laving over the pulse point beneath your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

— SIR IM JUST A HOLE

You gasped, arousal hitting you like a clap of thunder, your thighs squeezing together against your blooming cunt.

SUDDENLY IM NOT MAD AT HER AT ALL I AM HER. I DONT KNOW WHY IM LIKE THIS EITHER WHY AM I MAD AT HER FOR FOLDING FOR BILL SO QUICKLY WHEN I WOULD HAVE THROWN MYSELF AT HIM LIKE SNAP WHAT THE FUCK

He chuckled, the sound low and viscerally pleased. “Can smell that too, baby. Little heart’s racin’ like a rabbit.”

ITS FINE IM FINE HAHAHAH

“You're trembling again,” he said, softening a bit as he pulled back to look you in the eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

YES I CAN'T BE ATTRACTED TO A MAN THAT DOESNT SCARE ME A LIL I WILL JUMP YOUR BONES

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

🥺 they're so gentle BUT IM OVER HERE LIKE 🫦🫦🫦🫦 BARK WOOF GRRR

“No, love. Of course not. I'm still me.” He smoothed the hair from your forehead, palming the side of your skull with his long-fingered hand. “But Remus should be if he tries to get between us again.”

🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 REMUS MENTIONNNNNNN HE CAN JOINNN DONT BE A KILL JOYYYYYYY HAHAHHAAHA WHYS HE SO PRESSED OMG YOU WROTE THIS FOR MEEEEE DIDNT YOU YEEEEEEEEEEE WEEEEEEEEEE RAHHHHH

He leaned down, catching your laughter with a lissome press of his lips. The last of your reservation dissipated, dripping out between your thighs as the kiss deepened. His lips were pillowy, tongue tinged with iron and herbs, you leaned into his embrace, content to let him devour you whole.

BILL WEASLEY IN MY ROOM RN CHALLENGE: FAILED 😔😞😞😞😞😞😞😞😞😫💔

CONGRATS ON HITTING 1K, you deserve all the love you're getting and more <3333 for your celebration could i get a thousand stitches with bill? Your writing of him has been completely brilliant, i love the way you characterise him <333

hi my darling!!! thank you much!! I'm so grateful you're here and I hope you enjoy 🫶

1000 stitches | B.W.

feat. Bill Weasley x reader

cw: MDNI 18+, injuries and blood, near-death experience, early stages of werewolf!Bill , love confessions

1000 things prompt list (closed!) | masterlist

The sun crested the horizon, shades of violet, clementine, and rose, and still, Bill and the others hadn't returned from Hogwarts.

The full moon lingered at the edge of the sky, obstinate in its refusal to dip below the trees. You'd begged Bill not to go out while the moon hung bloated in the sky, an unusual, ominous shade of red.

But he'd gone anyways. Which was fair, you supposed; he wasn't yours to order about. You weren't a couple, despite the simmering tension between you, heightened by the deep connection you’d forged through over a decade of friendship and work and suffering and joy.

You'd loved him all your life, and he wouldn't be Bill Weasley, the man that held your heart hostage, if he didn't plunge headlong into danger, especially where his family was concerned.

Always eager for the hunt.

It was Harry, Lupin, and Tonks that arrived back first, bloodied and beaten, singed by the glancing blow of curses.

Molly ran out to them, screaming for her children, but Remus was quick to assuage her.

“They're right behind us—Molly, you must—Molly listen to me,” Remus snapped, shaking her gently. “Ron and Ginny are fine, but Bill—Greyback got a hold of him.”

You clutched the rusted porch railing of the safe house, limbs going numb as the blood drained from your brain.

“He's alive, but barely,” Remus continued, keeping Molly upright by sheer force of will. “And we don't know if he was—”

“Bitten,” you finished, your voice little more than a whimper. Remus looked up at you, nodding solemnly.

He looked like he was going to say something further, when the others suddenly apparated into the clearing. Ginny ran straight into the house, shouting for the medic assigned to the safe house. Ron and Neville held a body between them, the figure limp as a freshly killed stag and twice as bloody.

Bill.

Your ears began to ring, a monotonous, consuming sound, drowning out all of the shouting. You couldn't breathe.

Was he breathing?

You took a sip of air, lungs burning. You'd breathe for him.

Remus grabbed hold of Molly, keeping her out of the way as they carried Bill into the house. Up the stairs and towards you, five steps away, three, one—Ron caught your eye as they passed, looking for too guilty for a boy of only 18, but he quickly looked away, struggling under the weight of his much larger brother.

More members of the Order ran out to help carry him, relieving the boys of the burden, and you could only stand there, staring down at the twin smears of blood where Bill's feet had dragged across the threshold. Staining the stone forever.

Tonks was speaking to you, her hands on your shoulders, but you couldn't hear her, could only stare at the red, red, so much red. Too much red. How could he have anything left?

“We need more hands!” You heard someone call, the words filtering in through the din in your mind.

Hands, hands. You had hands, you could help.

“Tonks—”

“I don't think that's a good idea—”

“We don't have a choice,” Remus said, gently nudging Tonks aside and cupping your face. You forced your eyes to focus on his forehead, his crooked nose, his scars, his eyes. “Can you do this?” Remus asked.

“I-I can,” you affirmed, your voice sounding far away. Like someone else had spoken through your mouth.

“Good, let's go.”

It took more than five hours to stitch all of Bill's wounds. He'd been savaged, butchered, by Greyback. Almost unrecognizable under the swelling and bruising and gore.

The fact that he survived was nothing short of a miracle.

No one was sure if he'd been bitten. There was one wound on his right thigh that looked suspicious to Remus, but Bill was in too fragile a state for them to test anything.

So you waited, and waited, and waited. Four days of burning fever. Four days of changing head-to-toe bandages. Four days of ladling broth between his chapped lips. Four days of praying to anyone that would listen to spare him. To bring him back to you.

You knew he'd be different, no one suffered an attack like that and remained the same, but you knew that you'd love him anyways. The scars on his skin would pale in comparison to the scars left on his psyche, and you would find whatever strength you needed to help him through it.

You'd stitch him together with your own muscle and bone if you needed to.

On the fifth day, many of his wounds had finally healed down to pearlescent, puffy scars thanks to the medics magic. Deep gauges littered his torso and arms, creating new dips and valleys along the lean muscles of his body, a topographical map you could study for eons. The slashes across his face was healing better than anyone dared hoped, and he finally was beginning to look like Bill again.

But the wound on his thigh remained stubborn, pulpy as rotten fruit and refusing to knit together, growing more putrid the more magic that was thrown at it.

An uneasyness settled over the house. No longer a question of will he wake up, but what will wake up.

On the seventh day, Bill woke up screaming.

You were in the kitchen, helping Neville prepare the evening meal, when a roar shook the cedar bones of the old house.

You dropped the dish in your hands with a crash, roast and root vegetables exploding all over the grubby tile floor, and leapt over it, flying up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Tonks caught you at the end of the hall, grabbing you by the arms. “He's asking for you, but you have to—y/n, listen to me,” she snapped, and you stilled, coiled and ready to flee. “You have to be careful—that kind of trauma…he might not be the Bill you love.”

“I don't care.” You yanked free from her hold and dashed down the hallway. You burst into the room Bill was being kept in, a white-washed guest room on the quieter, darker end of the house, and found Ron, Arthur, and Remus desperately trying to restrain a frantic Bill on the bed.

“Where is she?” He bellowed.

You shoved Ron aside and flung your arms around Bill's neck, throwing your weight on him in the hopes of keeping him down.

“I'm here, I'm right here,” you soothed, not bothering to hold back the tears of relief streaming down your face and into his ruddy hair.

He groaned low in his chest, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and heaving a deep breath. His knotted muscles immediately went lax, and he looped an arm around your waist, hauling you into the bed with him. You were shocked at how much strength he still had after a week of bed rest.

“There you are,” he whispered, a throaty purr against your pulse. He drew another deep inhale, nose pressed against your jugular, and you suppressed a shiver.

“Are you alright? You didn't tear anything open—”

“Don't care,” he said, his lips charting a scalding path up your neck, days of stubble scratching mercilessly against the tender skin.

“Bill,” you argued, a fire sparking in your lower belly. You tried to push back a bit from his hold so you could inspect his bandages, could escape the intoxicating effect of his newfound affection. His grip tightened, bordering on painful, and a rumble resounded from the barrel of his chest. Something carnal, possessive, and you immediately dissolved back into his arms. Helpless to resist him.

“A ripped stitch isn't going to kill me,” he mumbled into the downy space behind your ear, his voice so much softer than whatever beast had been roused moments ago.

“Bill, we really need to do a full examination,” Remus interrupted gently. “What you've gone through—”

“It can wait,” Bill snarled, glaring at Remus over your shoulder. “Now get the fuck out.”

You gasped, shocked by his crude language, the aggressive edge to his voice. Bill was hardly the delicate sort, but you'd never seen him be outright hostile. Especially not towards his friends and family.

“Bill,” Remus said, hardening his voice.

“Please, just let them check you,” you whispered, stroking his cheek. “It'll give me and your family peace of mind.”

His eyes fluttered closed as you soothed him, his breathing leveling out. From bestial to docile in the span of a few heartbeats. “Only if you stay,” he answered finally, opening his eyes to look at you.

“I'm not going anywhere,” you assured, and he finally let you untangle yourself.

The medic came in first, checking all of his stitches and his vitals. Besides the wound on his leg, he was mostly healed, just some soreness and a slightly elevated temperature and heart rate.

His hand only left your body when the doctor needed it for something, otherwise he maintained contact through the entire examination.

You weren't sure what it meant, this sudden clinginess. If it was the trauma of almost dying, a head injury making him forget you weren't actually together, or something…else.

His family came in next, a cacophonous, emotional ordeal that made your heart ache with relief. With them, he seemed more like himself; the good-natured, charismatic man you'd fallen in love with, and some of your uncertainty ebbed.

You hadn't hated the intensity from earlier though, quite the opposite, actually. You just wished you knew what caused it, and why you.

Eventually, Bill declared that he wanted to properly shower, and everyone filed out to give him some privacy. When you stood to leave though, his hand tightened around your wrist.

“Don't go,” he said, drawing you back towards him. He was standing, propped against the bedframe for support.

“But you said you wanted to shower?” You blinked up at him, completely perplexed by this dramatic shift in his demeanor. Bill had never been very physical with you, besides platonic hugs and shoulder bumps.

“Help me,” he murmured, tilting your chin up.

Your heart stopped. “W-what?”

“Are you going to make me beg?” His breath fanned across your lips, balmy and disorienting. Headier than any hit you'd taken from a roll or a pipe.

“Bill, we aren't…together,” you argued weakly, a rabbit negotiating the terms of its release from the jaws of a catamount.

“Something I'd like to remedy, if you'll have me.” His other hand ensnared your waist, pulling your body flush to his.

“I'm not sure you're thinking clearly—” you tried to take a step back, but his grip turned to iron.

“Oh, I am. For probably the first fucking time,” he growled, patience wearing thin. “I’ve loved you for ten fucking years, and I almost lost you. So forgive me, darling, I will not be letting you go again.”

You liquified, muscles and bone turning to simpering goo in his arms. You didn't care if it was the pain medicine, or a head injury, or lycanthropy. All you'd ever wanted was to hear those three little words.

“I love you too,” you breathed, and he smiled, bumping his nose against yours before dragging it down your cheek, his hair tickling your lips.

“I know,” he hummed, the hot muscle of his tongue laving over the pulse point beneath your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

You gasped, arousal hitting you like a clap of thunder, your thighs squeezing together against your blooming cunt.

He chuckled, the sound low and viscerally pleased. “Can smell that too, baby. Little heart’s racin’ like a rabbit.”

Oh, fuck. You swallowed thickly, throat closing as fear pumped through your blood, mixing into a strange ichor with the ever-present desire for him.

“You're trembling again,” he said, softening a bit as he pulled back to look you in the eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

“No, love. Of course not. I'm still me.” He smoothed the hair from your forehead, palming the side of your skull with his long-fingered hand. “But Remus should be if he tries to get between us again.”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, inundated with both dread and delight.

He leaned down, catching your laughter with a lissome press of his lips. The last of your reservation dissipated, dripping out between your thighs as the kiss deepened. His lips were pillowy, tongue tinged with iron and herbs, you leaned into his embrace, content to let him devour you whole.

[hellothereobiwankenobi]

yellow ribbon on the door | chapter two

⟢ summary: Tommy convinces Joel to cover for him, and complete the repairs at your flower shop.

⟢ pairing: joel miller x afab!reader (femme but not descriptive as to actual features)

⟢ tags: no outbreak au, flower shop au, idiots in love, small age gap, joel is 35 and reader is 29 about to be 30, reader is a war widow, operation desert storm mentioned, reader is a single mother to ellie, eventual smut, no beta reader we die like men

⟢ wc: 3.2K

⟢ authors notes: Well, let me start by saying thank you for everyone who read chapter one! And an extra thank you to everyone who left such kind comments. I am so appreciative to everyone who has interacted with this story so far.

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The following Monday morning, Joel carries tools back and forth from the garage into the bed of his work truck. He loves this part of his morning routine. It was still early enough that most of his neighbors were in their homes getting ready for work and late enough that all the school-aged children on his street had already been picked up by big yellow buses. It was quiet enough for Joel to get some peace, sip his coffee, organize his tools how he liked, and hear the morning birds sing overhead.

Joel had a busy day ahead of him. He needed to pick up the drywall order for tomorrow's job, place a new order for the correct sized plumbing hardware for a client's kitchen remodel (he knew he shouldn't have trusted Tommy with taking the measurements), and he hoped to stop by elderly Mrs. Williams' home to make sure the handrails he installed in her shower last week were to her liking. He also had an important meeting with a real estate development firm about framing the main entryway of a new apartment complex being built in the city. Landing this job could open more doors for his and Tommy’s business, and it offers a sizable payout.

He grabs his colt coffee mug from the edge of the tailgate before finishing it off. As Joel closes the tailgate, the cell phone clipped to his belt rings. He removes it from his belt and hits the green answer button without checking the caller ID "Miller Brothers Contracting."

"Joel, it's me." Tommy's voice comes through the speaker pressed to his ear "I screwed up, man."

What is it now? Joel thinks. This is far from the first time he has heard his younger brother speak those words over the phone. But this type of call usually comes in the middle of the night and is preceded by a robotic voice stating, "This is a collect call from the Travis County Jail—Central Booking. Do you accept the charges?"

There is no way Tommy has already gotten himself arrested. It's not even eight in the morning.

Joel prepares for the worst. "What now?" 

Tommy explains that he double-booked himself today. He promised to come by your store this morning, but after checking his schedule, he realized he couldn’t make it across town in time for his next client—not in Austin traffic, at least.

"I need you to go and help her out," Tommy adds desperately. "I'll owe you one."

"Already do," Joel reminds him. 

Maybe it was his fault. Joel always felt that, as the older brother, it was his responsibility to bail Tommy out of his messes. Joel couldn't count how many times during Tommy's high school years he had picked him up in the wee hours of the morning because he was too drunk to drive home and too afraid to call their parents. Or the time Tommy ran his mouth off to a couple of good ol' boys at a local dive bar, and Joel had to join in when the fists started flying. Or when Tommy threw a party while their parents were in Mexico visiting family, and one of his friends punched a hole right through the bathroom door because it "wouldn't open." Joel had spent the little money he had on the supplies needed for a patch job good enough that their father wouldn't notice.

"Joel, please. I'm beggin' here." Tommy pleads.

Joel drags his large hand down his face and sighs, "Fine."

"You're a lifesaver. I'll buy us a round tonight as thanks." Tommy rushes out the address of your shop, and the line goes dead as he quickly disconnects the call.

+ + + + +

Joel sits in the driver's seat of his truck, eyes closed, both hands white-knuckling on the steering wheel, parked outside of your store: Iris-istible. Tommy hadn't mentioned you were a florist.

Joel takes a deep inhale and tries to give himself a quick pep talk. Just go in, tighten a bolt or two, and get out, he tells himself.

Joel gathers the strength to climb out of the cab and grab his navy blue toolbag from the truck bed. As he enters through the shop's front door, a small bell chimes and announces his presence. Three long, natural wood tables take up most of the floor space of the small storefront. The walls are exposed brick in alternating shades of deep burgundy and mahogany brown outlined in grey grout. Wooden shelves displaying premade arrangements, and various house plants in mismatched containers line the store's perimeter. A complex crystal chandelier hangs overhead, illuminating the cozy store front.

Joel looks to his left, and there you are, standing behind a waist-high butcher block counter stacked high with books on the language of flowers and beginner's guides to starting a garden. A goldenrod watering can and an old-fashioned register frame either side of the counter. 

Your back is turned toward the door while you fiddle with the soil of a potted orchid. You're wearing a pair of denim overalls over a short-sleeve white t-shirt. The straps of a sunshine yellow apron wrap over your shoulders and tie neatly in a bow around your waist at the center of your back. 

Your whole body whips around to face the entryway when you hear the bell's chime ringing out through the small shop. You are positively beaming, smiling ear-to-ear.

"Tommy, I thought you'd nev—" Your words die in your throat, and your smile melts away as you make eye contact with the older Miller brother.

"Sorry to disappoint," Joel grumbles, averting his eyes from you. There is an uncomfortable heat running up the back of his neck. Joel wouldn't describe himself as a proud man, but your ever-present fondness for his brother is on full display this morning, making him regret his decision to come.

You stand unblinking, still holding the potted orchid between your perfectly manicured fingers. French tips. Or at least that's what he thinks Sarah calls them.

"No," you come back to your senses and forcefully shake your head. A smile, while much smaller than the previous one, pulls back on your lips. "Not at all. Just surprised."

Joel could be just imagining it, but what looks like a rosy blush blossoms on the apples of your cheeks. From embarrassment or something else, he isn't sure.

Joel's feet remain planted just inside the entrance. He doesn't dare take another step into the store. Maybe it's not too late to leave.

"Let me show you where the walk-in is." You place the orchid on the counter and wipe away any remaining potting soil from your fingers onto your apron.

You step out from behind the counter and wave a hand for Joel to follow. You hold open the black, swinging door labeled "Employees Only" that leads to the store's backroom.

The back room was larger than Joel would have expected—maybe about half the size of the main storefront. Bags of potting soil and mulch are stacked against the wall next to a shelf of extra terracotta pots and crystal vases. A tall, light-colored workbench is pushed against the opposite wall. It is littered with discarded bruised petals and the clipped ends of flower stems.

On the back wall, there is a large silver door with a sizable latching handle. You place both hands on the handle and give it a couple of good tugs until it clicks open. You look over your shoulder with an embarrassed smile as you pull the door open. "Sorry, it sticks sometimes."

You and Joel finally step into the cooler. You had already turned off the A/C unit in anticipation of having it repaired. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving, all filled with different varieties of flora. Some flowers Joel could recognize: roses, daisies, daffodils. But most of them he had never seen before. A few even looked like something you'd find while hiking on a tropical vacation.

His eyes moved from the myriad of colored foliage to the ceiling. At the center is a small, two-fan A/C unit. He's not tall enough to reach it by only standing. He sets down his bag on the floor, directly below the unit. "I'll need to graby a ladder."

"Mhm," you nod, "whatever you need. I'll leave it to the expert."

You both exit the walk-in and head back to the front of the store. You return to your original position behind the counter as Joel exits to retrieve what he needs from the truck. 

He re-enters the building carrying the six-foot ladder under his left arm. You're working on an arrangement of pink roses and yellow Asiatic lilies in a stubby vase. You place the flowers absentmindedly in the vase as you watch him walk by. Joel's biceps flex under the ladder's weight, causing them to pull the fabric of his short-sleeved, forest green cotton tee shirt taut around them.

You could always tell Joel was strong. He filled out his clothing in a way that only a man who'd worked physical labor his whole life could: broad shoulders, large biceps, and a strong chest kept hidden under a few layers of thin fabric.

Once Joel has disappeared into the back half of the shop, you let out a ragged breath and refocus on the bouquet in front of you.

You tried to keep busy with orders and reorganizing display shelves, but your mind kept wandering back to the man inside your walk-in cooler. Thankfully, a customer came in to distract you—a well-dressed, clean-shaven young man looking for a gift for his mother's birthday. 

"She loves tulips," he explained. You showed him the premade arrangements on the display tables, but they weren't what he was looking for. 

"Let me check the back and see what I can whip up." you give him a reassuring smile before disappearing behind the storage room door.

You're greeted by the sight of Joel standing halfway up the ladder. His hands are above his head, working on the A/C unit, causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and expose the smallest peak of his lower stomach. A trail of deep brown hair extends from below the waistband of his dark-wash denim jeans and travels up until it disappears under the soft fabric of his shirt. Your eyes begrudgingly tear themselves away from the exposed skin and move up his body. His stomach looks soft in comparison to the solid muscles of his chest and upper arms. Your eyes linger on the sharp angles of his jawline. Finally, your studying gaze reaches strong hands. His thick fingers delicately work over the intricate details of the unit.

He had so much control over the fine movements of his thick digits. He presses a petite silver knob between his thumb and index finger, giving it a gentle twist.

Your mind runs through the endless possibilities of what else he could squeeze between those two fingers.

The feeling of your weighted stare breaks Joel's concentration. He looks down to see you standing below him. He pulls his eyebrows together as you frantically try to collect yourself. You can't see it, but you are sure by the heat burning in your cheeks that your face is completely flushed.

"S-sorry," you manage to stammer out, "just need to grab something." You walk around him to the back of the cooler and grab a few different colors of tulips before rushing out.

+ + + + +

The repair work took longer than Joel expected. One of the pipes responsible for circulating refrigerant into the condenser had corroded. He was able to complete a patch job, but the pipe would need to be entirely replaced for any long-term success. The twin fan blades whirl to life as Joel turns the A/C unit back on, giving his work a final once-over. He wants to ensure everything will hold up until he can get the part needed to finish the job.

When you re-enter the walk-in, Joel is collecting his tools back into his bag.

"How's it going in here?" you ask. You feel cool air brush across your bare forearms and look up at the ceiling unit. 

"You fixed it?" it comes out as a half statement, half question. The same beaming regard from earlier on your face, but it is intended for Joel this time.

Joel felt a mysterious craving deep within him finally being satisfied. He didn't know it previously, but he must have wanted that look, the one you save for his brother, to be meant for him. 

The warmth radiating from your smile was almost too intoxicating. Joel had to distract himself by closing the ladder, or he would have been completely engulfed by it.

"For now." Joel says, making a conscious effort to keep his eyes from returning to you, "I gotta order a part to fix it right."

Joel tucks the ladder under his arm again and moves to return it to the truck. You look down at his tool bag and reach for the handles with one hand. You can barely pick it up off the ground. It is much heavier than you expected. With a soft groan, you lift the bag and keep it secure in front of you with both hands.

Joel looks back at the sound and sees you struggling to hold the bag at waist level. "You ain't gotta—"

"But I want to." is all you say before overtaking him. You trek your way outside the shop with Joel close behind.

You set the tool bag on the curb next to Joel's truck, feeling accomplished about carrying it alone. Joel lifts the ladder over his head and slides it on the chrome rack suspended above the truck bed. He secures it in place with a couple of ratchet straps, then turns to grab the tool bag from the curb. 

With one easy motion, Joel lifts the bag up and over the tailgate, returning it to its original place.

"So, what do I owe you?" you ask with a gentle smile.

Joel looks at you and shakes his head. "Was just doin' a favor for Tommy."

"Come on, I have to pay you somehow." Your smile grows. "There is this really great coffee shop about a block from here. My treat."

Your intention genuinely was to thank him for his help this morning, but a selfish part of you was also trying to find a reason for him to stay just a little bit longer.

"I'll let Tommy know when the part comes in," Joel states flatly. He is already behind schedule. He needs to leave now to make his meeting with the real estate developers.

Joel gives you a nod goodbye before walking around the truck and climbing into the driver's seat. He pulls away from the curb and rejoins Austin city traffic, watching your little yellow apron become smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror.

+ + + + +

Thankfully, the rest of Joel's jobs for the day go smoothly. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the melody playing from his Hank Williams cassette tape. Joel would be lying if he said the drive home from the city, back to the suburbs, wasn't his favorite part of the work day. He could reflect on his day, watch the sunset paint the central Texas horizon orange and pink, and he could listen to his "old man" music without Sarah making any comments at his expense.

He pulls into the small parking lot of The Whiskey Room, his and Tommy's usual watering hole. The drinks are cheap, the music is to his liking, and it is close enough to his house that he and Tommy can walk home after having one too many.

Joel spots Tommy's dark grey pickup, a weathered "OPERATION DESERT STORM COMBAT VETERAN" bumper sticker prominently displayed on the tailgate next to the driver's side taillight.

Tommy is saving a spot next to him at the bar. He puts out his cigarette as Joel pulls out the chair and takes a seat.

"Heard you landed that framin' job in those new apartments for us," Tommy says, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezing. "Ol' man still knows how to sweet talk a couple suits."

"Whiskey, neat. For my friend here." Tommy calls over to the bartender, "On me."

The bartender, a young woman in her mid-twenties, places a short glass containing two fingers of amber liquid on the bar top before Joel. Tommy gives her a wink as she walks away, flipping her long brown hair over one shoulder. 

Tommy finally removes his hand from his brother's shoulder and returns to his own drink.

"Your girlfriend's A/C needs a new coolant pipe." Joel grabs ahold of the whiskey glass and takes a sip.

"Nah, man." Tommy lets out a soft laugh before bringing his drink to his lips. "It ain't like that. She's just my ol' sergeant's wife."

It takes Joel a moment to put the pieces together. Tommy's old sergeant. The one from his time in Kuwait. The one who moved to Austin after the end of Operation Desert Storm with his wife. The one whose funeral Tommy attended eighteen months ago. 

Shit.

Joel stays silent as the overwhelming impact of his own stupidity washes over him. He can't think of a single thing to say.

Tommy rests his glass on the bar top "Wait, you really thought—"

Laughter erupts from Tommy, drawing the attention of those seated around them. Joel can feel the eyes of the bar's other patrons staring at his back. 

"I've just been helpin' her out since Sarge passed. She's goin' through a lot." Tommy is gripping the bar with one hand and places the other over his chest, trying to catch his breath.

"Pendejo."  Tommy takes his glass in his hand, grinning wide, and shakes his head in disbelief.

Joel's frigid embarrassment begins to grow into heated frustration. He downs his remaining whiskey in one gulp.

"She's always all over you. Gettin' you things, laughin' at your jokes," Joel snaps back at his brother.

"She's a sweet girl." Tommy nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders. "She's the kinda person that likes doin' nice things for other people. It's a mom thing, I reckon."

"Not to me." Joel retorts.

"You don't give her much of a reason to." Tommy takes another drink of his whiskey.

Joel thinks back on the handful of past exchanges the two of you have had. The first time he met you at the Super Bowl party, he spoke maybe two or three words to you. You spent most of the night sitting next to his brother on Joel's brown leather couch, listening captivatingly to Tommy explain the basics of American Football. At the family dinner, he was almost wholly silent towards you. Other than sneaking a few quick glances your way over the kitchen table every time you let an unapologetically sweet laugh escape your full lips. Even today, when you offered to buy him coffee to thank him for the work he had done at your store, he immediately shut you down.

"You really are one dumb bastard, you know that?" For the first time in a long time, Joel found himself agreeing with his younger brother.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

⟢ authors notes: I promised idiots in love, and I gave you idiots in love. Pre/non-outbreak Joel is my absolute favorite things to write currently. He is just such a goober.

I'm pretty insecure about the quality of my writing. I'm powering it though. I used to write fanfiction nearly everyday in my younger years, but as time went on I lost my love for it. But reading the phenomenal works of the authors in this community has reignited my passion.

I'm on spring break this week, so I am trying to write as much as possible until classes start again next Monday. My writing process is a little messy. I write in nonsequential order. As a scenes pops into my head, I scribble it out into a Google Doc the piece them together like a big jigsaw puzzle.

[hazbinhotei]

the devil's note.

warnings/tags: jazz singer!reader, alastor only has like one line of dialogue in this lol

word count: 2793

summary: As a talented and enchanting jazz singer, your performance turns personal when your bold teasing leaves the Radio Demon speechless.

alastor x f!reader. thank you to the anon who requested this story! guess who's back!~ so... i haven't uploaded in 10 days. i think you are all due for an apology, but i hope swear i'm not giving up on this account so quickly, so hopefully more uploads come along soon! i have many part two concepts in my head (including this story)—but the question is if i can write it all out before life gets to me. enjoy!

The day had started with one of Angel Dust’s usual antics—a grand proclamation over breakfast, fork twirling in hand, eyes glinting with flamboyant mischief.

"Alright, listen up, bitches! I got somethin’ special planned for tonight, and no, Vaggie, it ain't one of my 'educational' excursions, so don’t get your panties in a twist!" He waved a pink-gloved hand as if to ward off her immediate disapproval, grinning as he leaned back in his chair. "I’m talkin’ class, I'm talkin’ style, I'm talkin’ one of the best damn voices to ever grace the depths of Hell."

Vaggie narrowed her right eye, sitting up as she glanced at Charlie beside her. "This isn’t another one of your weird ‘bonding activities,’ is it? Like—like that time you tried to get us to go to a ‘How-to-Moan’ class?"

Angel scoffed. "Okay, that was one time, and I still think it woulda been fun!” He huffed, shaking his head to dismiss his previous rejected suggestion. “But no, babe, this is different! I got this girlfriend performing tonight, the kinda doll that could sing the socks off of any demon. Total smoke show, like an absolute bombshell—think old Hollywood but with a fuckin' bite!"

Vaggie sighed, leaning forward on the table, her forehead dropping into her hand. "This is gonna be a disaster, isn't it?"

Charlie bit down on her lower lip, hesitating before curiosity won out. She rubbed a hand over Vaggie's back, consoling her girlfriend as she asked, "What kind of venue?"

"A jazz club!" Angel declared, tossing his upper arms up with a twirl. "Live music, good booze, and a vibe that ain't total chaos—betcha didn’t expect that from me, huh?"

That immediately caught Alastor’s (previously devoid) attention, ears flickering up as his half-lidded eyes opened up. His usual grin stretched just a fraction wider with newfound interest. "A jazz club, you say?" His voice was light, laced with curiosity, a lilting note of intrigue threading through each syllable. "Now that sounds like a lovely way to spend an evening."

Charlie’s attention snapped to Alastor, ecstatic to see him actually interested in a group bonding activity for once. She immediately whipped her head back to Vaggie, who merely groaned in response to her partner’s current puppy-dog expression. Vaggie only sighed once more, pursing her lips. “Fine, we can go.”

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

The moment the doors swung open to The Devil’s Note, a sultry jazz bar nestled in the heart of Pentagram City, the group was automatically enveloped in a haze of warm, dim light and the slow, hypnotic strum of a double bass. The scent of whiskey and aged cigars wove through the air, mingling with the perfume of debauchery and whispered secrets.

Velvet drapes cascaded from the ceiling like blood-red waterfalls, framing mahogany walls adorned with vintage jazz posters and golden sconces that flickered with an otherworldly glow. A grand chandelier loomed above, its many crystal facets casting fractured light across the glossy black floors.

Husk barely had a moment to process the room before a passing server—impeccably dressed in a maroon vest and black bow tie—wordlessly handed him a fresh glass of whiskey. He took it without hesitation, grunting in approval before muttering, "Yeah. This place ain't half bad."

Vaggie, arms crossed and brow furrowed, took a slow, assessing look around before finally conceding, "This is… surprisingly nice."

Angel Dust twirled, four arms outstretched as he breathed it all in. "I know, right? Y’all thought I was gonna drag ya to some sleazy strip joint, huh? Give me some credit!" He leaned against Husk, smirking as Husk coughed mid-sip from the sudden movement. "Even whiskers over here is enjoying himself."

Charlie, expression starry with admiration, nodded vigorously. "I wasn’t expecting something this elegant! It’s like stepping into another era."

And yet, amidst all the chatter and appreciation, Alastor stood eerily still. His smile remained, but his gaze told a different story—nostalgia. He surveyed the space with an unsettling kind of familiarity, his fingers ghosting over the back of a chair as though touching a memory brought to life. The phonograph in the corner crackled softly beneath the low hum of conversation. The brass instruments glinted under dim golden light, polished and pristine. Authentic.

He inhaled steadily, deep and deliberate. "Now, this," he murmured, voice almost reverent, "is a proper establishment."

And with that, the group was ushered to a candle-lit table near the stage, where they settled into a plush, curved leather booth, sipping on devilishly strong drinks while Angel Dust gleefully droned on about how they were in for a real treat. Niffty bounced excitedly beside him, her tiny hands gripping the table as she took in every detail, while Husk, already halfway through his second drink, merely grunted in pacified patience. Vaggie remained reserved but intrigued next to an energetic Charlie who was practically vibrating with elation at the sight of the entire group together in an area that wasn’t the hotel. 

Even Alastor quieted his usual accompanying static, a sign of respect for the Hellborn jazz band on stage. His glowing eyes flickered about the place, his smile satisfied as he tapped along to the beat with a clawed thumb. He had been prepared for tacky, garish decor, for a club that spat on the essence of true jazz. But this—this felt like a whisper from the past, an echo of something he once knew. The deep thrum in his chest from the bass, the filtered wah-wah notes of the trumpet, the sharp keys from the piano—it was real.

His head began bobbing in time with the beat, and before long, he was humming—low, rich, an effortless accompaniment to the imps filling the room with old-world soul. His foot, ever so slightly, tapped along with the rhythm in addition to his thumb. It was a rare sight—Alastor, not just half-assed listening, but feeling the music, letting it settle into him like it was a life source.

Charlie, observing him from behind, leaned toward Vaggie with a hushed whisper. "He looks… natural like this. Like he belongs here."

Angel grinned as he overheard the princess’ words, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers. "Ain’t seen nothin’ yet, toots." His mismatched eyes twinkled, delight bubbling just beneath his tone. "Just wait ‘til the real show starts."

As if on cue, the lights began to dim. A few guests around the club perked up, their murmurs laced with anticipation. The energy in the room shifted as a golden spotlight shined on the center of the stage, buzzing quietly with unspoken thrill.

A hush fell over the crowd as the jazz band eased into a rich, sultry melody, the notes weaving through the air like smoke curling from the end of a cigarette. The suspense in the room was palpable, some guests shifting forward in their seats, their low whispers betraying excitement. Then, as if answering their call, a graceful silhouette stepped into the soft light, emerging from the shadows.

You.

Draped in liquid satin, the deep emerald fabric of your gown clung to your curves like it had been painted on, the thigh-high slit revealing glimpses of silk stockings as you moved. Diamond earrings kissed your neck, sparkling under the spotlight, while a matching necklace sat snug at your throat, a glittering noose of old money elegance. Every inch of you screamed dangerously expensive, an untouchable femme fatale gracing Hell with her presence.

The moment your ruby lips curled into a relaxed, sly smile, the room seemed to exhale all at once—entranced, bewitched. Every step you took was intentional, high heels clicking softly against the stage as you moved with the languid finesse of a panther on the prowl. The mic stand welcomed the brush of your fingers, cool metal against your skin, and for a brief moment, you let the silence stretch—letting them wait, letting them want as you surveyed the crowd with bated breath.

Then—

You sang.

A voice like silk and sin, rich with the kind of confidence that came from knowing the effect you had. The song had started off with a bang, your voice powerful as you rang out the first electrifying note—long, steady, and clear proof of your skill. Your opening riff dripped with seduction, wrapping around the room like a velvet ribbon. Conversations hushed. All eyes were on you. 

Even Alastor’s.

He sat unnaturally still, red eyes burning like embers, fingers tightening around the glass of whiskey in his hand. His ever-present smile had not faltered, and yet, there was something in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his ears twitched as if trying to resist the very essence of your voice. His chest felt tight with a new emotion he could not quite place, his mind suddenly empty of all other thoughts as he watched you sway on stage.

The musicians followed in suit once you sang the opening, the floor vibrating as the swell of jazz rolled through the room like thunder dipped in honey. Every instrument answered your voice like a well-trained lover—sharp when you snapped, soft when you slinked. You didn’t just sing; you prowled, you played, you performed. Your hips moved with the rhythm, and every gesture was a magnetic force of perfected deliberation. Notes curved out of you like smoke rings, leaving the room hanging on every breath.

As the final note lingered in the air, a wave of applause rippled through the audience. To Angel's excitement, his group all seemed to be giving signs of approval. Charlie and Niffty were clapping fervently, and even the usual impassive faces of Vaggie and Husk were now adorned with impressed expressions. And Alastor… He clapped too—but it was precise, calculated. Each movement measured, restrained, as his eyes smoldered with sudden intensity.

Angel leaned back, throwing an arm over the back of the booth, grinning smugly at the group. “Ain’t she great?” he drawled, clearly reveling in their reactions.

As the applause settled, you bowed elegantly, sending a charming smile to the crowd. “Enjoy your night at The Devil’s Note, darlings. There’s more where that came from—so stay tuned.”

The small crowd applauded a second time, your band picking up the beat once more as the lights cleared just slightly for an intermission. In the downtime, you spotted Angel in the crowd, a flicker of recognition lighting up your expression as you stepped down from the stage. You snaked towards their booth with effortless grace, the attention of a few Sinners lingering on you as you passed their tables to get to your good friend.

“Angel!” you called out, sliding up beside him as he beamed at you. “You always know how to gather an…”—You glanced at the motley crew, blinking in surprise as you took in his choice of accompanies tonight—”interesting crowd.”

He wrapped his upper arms around you, hugging you tightly as he gestured to the group with a free hand. “Doll, meet my weird-ass roommates. We got Charlie, she’s the princess—yeah, that princess. Vaggie, her overprotective watchdog. Husk—he’s grumpy but I promise he’s warming up to me.”

Husk snorted. “Not in a million years.”

Angel waved him off, continuing down the line. “That’s Niffty, she’s a firecracker, and last but definitely the freakiest—Alastor, ya know, the Radio Demon.”

After greeting each member individually, your gaze finally landed on the Sinner across from you, who sat ever so still in the curved booth, his grin wide as you both studied each other. You hummed softly when you met his red eyes, glowing with something akin to curiosity. You had heard of the Radio Demon in passing conversations throughout your time in Hell, but you had never expected him to be such a… dapper fellow.

He was dressed in a crimson pinstripe suit, essentially blending in seamlessly with the aesthetic of the club. The sharp cut of his jacket accentuated his tall frame, and the dark shadows surrounding him only seemed to grow in the candlelight, casting an eerie silhouette behind him. You almost had to hold back a laugh at the odd addition of two tiny prongs of antlers jutting between his large red ears—an unexpectedly cute detail that clashed comically with the otherwise pristine 1930s vibe he was going for. Something in his expression, the way his grip tensed around the glass at the way you watched him, made your brow lift in amusement. He studied you in return not with disdain, nor indifference, but with something far more interesting—contemplation. It made the hair on the back of your neck stick up; how thrillingly dangerous.

You leaned in slowly, purposeful, your elbow hitting the table as you rested your chin against your palm. You let the tension stretch, your head tilting as your charming smile morphed into a wide smirk. His watching eyes only seemed to track your every move, his body tensing slightly as if he were waiting for an attack. Then, with a teasing, sensual tone, you tilted your head and purred—

“You seem uncomfortable. Do I make you nervous?”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes, stunned into silence by your words. His ears shot straight up, blinking several times at you as if he couldn’t believe what you just said. The rest of the group seemed equally shocked by your bold move—both Charlie’s and Vaggie’s jaws dropped at your provocative comment as Husk merely took a long, slow sip of his drink to hide his amused smirk at Alastor's dumbfounded expression.

A second of quiet tension passed before Angel burst into laughter, cackling loudly. “Toots, you’ve seriously got a death wish! Fuckin’ flirting with the Radio Demon—I swear I’ve never met a gal as crazy as you!”

You turned back to the spider beside you, grinning deviously as his arm around your shoulder shook with every guffaw. “Please, I’m only teasing.” You couldn’t help but chuckle alongside Angel, shaking your head as you turned back to look at the rest of the table. “But seriously, I’m glad to have you folks here. Any friend of Angel’s is a friend of mine, so enjoy your time here.”

You backed out of the booth smoothly, gesturing for a passing waiter to bring a fresh round of colorful refreshments to the table. Angel lit up like he’d just witnessed the second coming, beaming at you with pure reverence for the free alcohol. You rolled your eyes with a smirk, giving his shoulder a playful push that made him giggle like a schoolgirl.

As the rest of the group oohed and aahed over the new drinks being set before them, you turned to take your leave—gown swaying around you—but not without one final glance over your shoulder. 

While the others were distracted by the sudden liquor, Alastor’s staring remained fixed on you, unmoving and unblinking. You met his gaze, letting your lashes lower just so. Then, with all the poise of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, you winked slowly… and blew him a kiss.

His smile snarled, revealing black gums—just for a moment—before your eyes caught the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple in an involuntary gulp. You glanced down at his free hand on the table, his red claws leaving a few scuff marks on the polished mahogany wood. You only huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you turned forward once more.

“For the Radio Demon, you don’t seem to be quite the talker!”

You were met with a sudden burst of radio static, the lamps above you flickering in tandem. You heard a few gasps from the group before Angel’s recognizable laughter rang out once more, wheezing even harder than before. Smirking, you continued on without looking back, sending a fluttering wave to the group behind you.

You ascended the stage once more, your heels clicking against the familiar wooden stage. The imp at the piano glanced back at the commotion, eyes darting between you and the table with a questioning brow, but you snapped your fingers lightly, calling him back to focus. He simply nodded and turned back to the keys.

As you reached for the mic again, you glanced once more toward the table—and found Alastor watching you. His menacing smile remained, tight and strained like a mask held too long. When you both made eye contact, his right eye twitched. You bit your lip, a coy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, whether that be from your clear effect on the Sinner or the dangerous thrill starting to blossom in your stomach.

Only one thought rang through your mind as you stepped into the spotlight, the music swelling behind you, the room holding its breath once more to hear your voice:

This will be fun.

tag list: @railgunuzi @frompiscium @rose-in-blue @catticora @milkissesx [want to join/be removed from the tag list? check my pinned post!]

[timebambi]

class bias in arcane : the problem with the "vi can't read" headcanon.

the idea that vi never learned to read or write because she's from zaun is not only ridiculous and completely unsupported by the show, but always revolves around the stigmatization of zaunites in general and the uplifting of caitlyn. which is, obviously, very bad …

this is going to be a bit long, but i really wanted to explore this and share my thoughts, especially because this headcanon harms vi and other zaunite characters in the show indirectly. which is something i. hate. so. much. i just can't comprehend how people are still saying this.

vi can read. the show literally shows us this.

in season 2, vi says to jinx that the letter is from vander to silco. a letter. which is handwritten in manuscript. meaning she's actually reading. because it requires standard literacy skills. so, you know, she can read :)

and she's not the only one. jinx also reads the letter (if you somehow missed her cracking hextech in season 1). vander wrote it himself, meaning he was literate too. silco and vander put their initials on their jackets, just more proof that literacy isn't uncommon in zaun. literally, at no point in season 2 does arcane show a zaunite struggling to read or write.

season 1 already gave us clues about this.

this isn't even new information. in season 1, episode 1, vi searches jayce's lab for valuables to steal, but she still stops to look at the books. that's not something you do if reading is completely foreign to you.

she also looks at jayce's research board, which is covered in scientific notes and calculations and immediately realizes she's in an inventor's workspace. if reading were completely unfamiliar to vi, that mess of writing would just look like abstract symbols or nonsense to her. but no. she can process enough of it to understand what it means.

and let's not forget powder. well, maybe i'm reading too much into that, so you can ignore this if you want. but in the same episode, she picks up a book and seems to read a line before closing it. it doesn't seem to me that she’s staring blankly at the page, but that her eyes are actually following a line of text.

so if vi’s younger sister could read at that time, why wouldn't she ?

zaunites aren't illiterate, arcane shows that over and over again.

okay. so, if vi knowing how to read is still somehow up for debate, what about the other zaunites ?

ekko is literally shown reading, writing, and eventually inventing a time machine in season 2. since this alternate universe shows zaun becoming like piltover, you'd expect a major difference between these two characters. i mean, according to some people, the undercity is full of the poor and uneducated, right ? so with piltover being more open, powder should have had more resources to develop her skills. if that were true, you'd think she'd notice ekko lacking in literacy. but nope. he's just as literate as the powder from that world, since they collaborated without any issues.

maybe i could add viktor. yes, arcane doesn't detail how viktor got into piltover's academy, but his official lore confirms that viktor's intelligence was recognized early, he was already deeply knowledgeable in science as a child, working alongside singed and so later, he was brought to piltover and caught the eye of heimerdinger. i just don't see how any of this would be possible without being literate. there's no way he'd get into the academy without knowing how to read or write.

so, now the question is : why them and not vi ?

why wouldn't vander make sure vi and powder could read ?

again, if you somehow missed that jinx can read and write in season 1, or if you still think that doesn't necessarily mean vi can, and to answer "why them and not vi ?", let's go over this.

nothing in arcane suggests that zaunites are generally illiterate, it's actually the contrary (e.g. ekko, vitkor, silco, vander), so why would vander's kids be the exception ? and if one of them had to be, why vi ? especially when both vi and powder didn't have to work in the mines thanks to vander. no but this alone shows that he invested in their well-being beyond just survival, so why wouldn't that also include making sure they had basic literacy ? even if their parents didn't teach them first, what reason could vander have to not teach vi and powder when he can read and write himself ?

actually, it makes even less sense to assume that the sisters never learned to read, considering they were more privileged than many other kids in zaun, especially since vander kept them out of child labor.

the "vi can't read, so caitlyn teaches her" headcanon is just ... gross.

now let's talk about how this headcanon is not just a silly fandom theory, but something harmful.

there's this recurring fandom trope where caitlyn, the wealthy piltover enforcer, teaches vi, the poor ex-prisoner from zaun, how to read. and it's always framed as something "cute" or "romantic."

except … it's not.

this plays directly into the class divide between them. caitlyn already comes from a position of power and privilege. framing vi as this uneducated, illiterate street kid who needs caitlyn to "civilize" her completely strips away vi's intelligence and independence. it infantilizes her, turning her into some kind of "fixer-upper" project rather than the strong, capable person we know she is.

and after season 2, this headcanon feels even worse. it's as if the fandom is desperate to preserve a "wholesome" version of their relationship, even if it means making vi less than she actually is. if the only way to keep caitvi looking healthy for some of you is to belittle vi's intelligence and reinforce a savior dynamic, then maybe the ship isn't made for you anymore.

this headcanon needs to die.

i guess i have to conclude with the fact that nowhere in arcane is there any real evidence that vi is illiterate. if anything, the show gives us multiple signs that she, and many other zaunites, can read and write just fine. also, the idea that she can't isn't just wrong, it's rooted in a fandom bias that constantly downplays her intelligence while uplifting caitlyn's role in her life.

[cometomecosette]

Standout moments from "Les Mis" recordings, 1993-'96

My Les Mis watch- and listen-through has reached the mid '90s. Once again, I'm citing the moments both from complete video and audio bootlegs and from official cast recordings that stand out the most for me. Again, thanks to @professorspork with her Wicked Punctum Project for inspiring me.

1993 South Korean proshot video

Valjean's death tableau from the novel recreated onstage.

Like the original Israeli and Hungarian productions, the original South Korean production of Les Mis was non-replica, and heavily cut too. But some of its inventive staging choices are worth noticing. This is one of the smaller ones, but it stands out the most to me. In the final scene, Marius is much more anguished than usual as he begs Valjean’s forgiveness and recounts how he saved him, fairly breaking down in remorse as he kneels by the dying man’s side. Meanwhile, Cosette is already kneeling at her father’s other side, and Valjean comforts them both. The result is a near-perfect recreation of the way Hugo describes Valjean’s last moments, with Marius and Cosette kneeling in tears on either side of him and holding his hands. A tableau that was one of the novel’s iconic images in its day, which inspired many 19th century illustrators to draw it, but which isn’t featured in most productions of the musical.

Honorable Mentions:

*In “Who Am I?” the courtroom appears behind Valjean from the beginning of the song’s main verses. As Valjean sings, we see a pantomime of Javert delivering his testimony, Champmathieu pleading in vain, and the judges listening impassively, in front of a red curtain that adds a hellish ambience.

*In the “Waltz of Treachery,” when the Thénardiers are pretending to fawn over little Cosette, Mme. Thénardier gives her Éponine’s doll. Cosette thinks the doll is really hers to keep and cradles it adoringly, but just before she leaves with Valjean, Mme. T. heartlessly snatches it back from her. This makes it all the sweeter when Valjean gives her a real gift (an anachronistic teddy bear instead of a doll, but whatever) a few moments later.

*In “Look Down,” Éponine works as a flower girl, like an even poorer and grubbier Eliza Doolittle. When Valjean and Cosette enter, she tries to sell them a flower, and in doing so, she glimpses Cosette’s face and recognizes her from their childhood.

*Javert wears a fake beard to the barricade, which Gavroche rips off during “Little People.” Really.

*During the wedding, Cosette is with Marius and the Thénardiers during their interaction, and Mme. Thénardier feigns excessive friendliness to her. Thus, she gets a shocking reminder of her childhood trauma, she hears the whole revelation of how Valjean saved Marius (although Marius still explains it to her in the next scene – presumably because she didn’t know that “Jean Valjean” was her father), and since Marius’s lines about Éponine are uncut, she’s visibly shaken to hear of Éponine’s death too.

1994 Japanese Red Cast Recording

Kaho Shimada’s “Attack on Rue Plumet.”

Of the six Japanese cast recordings of Les Mis, this one seems to be the only one easy to obtain in the US, and it features Kaho Shimada reprising her role as Éponine from the original 1987 Tokyo cast and from the Complete Symphonic Recording. As a seasoned performer in the role, and this time singing in her native Japanese, she brings a whole new level of passion and vividness to her performance on this recording, especially in “Attack on Rue Plumet.” Her (Japanese equivalent of) “I’m gonna scream, I’m gonna warn them here!” sounds frantic and feral, as does her half-spoken “Well, I told you I’d do it! I told you I’d do it!” Her raw fear, anger, and desperation transcend language, and though she’s never been an Éponine who can do a classic high-pitched scream, the fierce animalistic screech she utters instead is fully effective. Adding to the scene’s rawness is the fact that during Claquesous’ “What a palaver…” we hear Thénardier slapping her twice!

Honorable Mention:

*The Javert of Kunio Murai (a.k.a. the Japanese voice of Harrison Ford) softly yet madly laughing after “I am reaching, but I fall” in “Javert’s Suicide.”

10th Anniversary Concert

The moment of Éponine’s death.

Most Les Mis fans seem to agree that Lea Salonga and Michael Ball give us an especially poignant rendition of “A Little Fall of Rain” in this concert. And of that rendition, it’s the very end that stands out for me. The way Lea draws out her last note on “…flowers…” so that her voice sweetly blends with Michael’s, then gives him one last tender glance before her eyes close and her head falls lifeless against his chest. Michael’s soft, short “…grow,” which sounds as if Marius is so overwhelmed with emotion that he can barely utter the word. And the way he tenderly caresses her hair and kisses the top of her head, then mournfully cradles her body. Even though this is a concert with the performers standing in front of mics, this moment is just as tender and poignant as it is in any fully staged performance.

Honorable Mentions:

*Colm Wilkinson’s fearsome “I will see it DONE!!!” at the end of “Fantine’s Arrest.”

*Ruthie Henshall’s shimmering, ethereal tone as she trails away her final note on “…and I’ll see her when I wake!” We seem to hear Fantine’s spirit rising to heaven on that note.

*Alun Armstrong and Jenny Galloway’s pantomime bickering as the Thénardiers at the end of “Master of the House.”

*Michael Maguire’s “Lamarque is dead…” in which at first, he seems to reel in grief, but then suddenly realizes that this can be the catalyst for their revolution, and then rallies his friends with mounting excitement that finally becomes ecstatic fervor.

*Lea Salonga’s fierce and angry “Without me, his world will go on turning” in “On My Own.” The melancholy waif Éponine of the ‘80s is gone: this girl is a fiery urchin and she’s mad at Marius for not returning her love. (Not that I entirely like seeing her played that way, but it’s a choice that stands out.)

*Michael Maguire placing his hand on Anthony Crivello’s shoulder after the latter’s solo in “Drink with Me.” It’s a small gesture, but it shows that by this time in the musical’s history, everyone seems to agree that Enjolras and Grantaire should have some meaningful interaction in this moment.

*Philip Quast loosening one lock of his hair to convey the unhinging of his mind during “Javert’s Suicide.”

Original Duisburg Cast Recording

The Foreman’s “Right, my girl. On your way!” (or rather “Tja, mein Schatz. Raus mit dir!”)

Again, it’s not easy to choose a standout moment from a highlights recording. But I finally chose one, although it doesn’t involve any of the leads. It’s the way that Steffen Friedrich as the Foreman delivers the German equivalent of “Right, my girl. On your way!��� (Which literally translates as “Well, my darling. Out with you!”) In my experience, very few actors deliver “On your way!” as a full-blown ferocious shout: yes, Michael McCarthy and Jeff Nicholson in the anniversary concerts both roar it, but that seems to be precisely because those performances are grand-scale concerts. Most actors in my experience either just snap it or else speak it in a chillingly quiet voice. This German actor is the first Foreman I’ve heard outside of a concert who truly shouts the line, in a vicious snarling tone. Poor Fantine.

1996 Duisburg proshot video

Felix Martin’s reserved grief for Éponine.

I’ve chosen the same moment here that I did for the 10th Anniversary Concert, but here it’s played very differently. Felix Martin is a reserved and gentlemanly Marius, nowhere near as amiable and effusive as Michael Ball, and Sanni Luis’s ruggedly vulnerable Éponine clearly belongs to a different world than he does. He treats her with amusement and sympathy, but not as a close friend. But as she brings him to Cosette, protects them from the gang, and ultimately dies for him at the barricade, he sees her in a new light and learns her true value. His reaction to her death suits this arc and his personality in general. At first glance it might seem cold: no tears, no kiss, no cradling, just a long, motionless, sadly disbelieving stare at her body. But as he stays in that stance even after she’s carried away, it becomes clear that he’s shaken to the core by her passing. Especially when he finally picks up her hat and gently presses it to his heart.

Honorable Mentions:

*At the end of "Master of the House," instead of the standard closing comic business (i.e. Thénardier drinks his own bad homemade wine, runs to the kitchen, and throws up), Mme. Thénardier withdraws into the kitchen gulping the wine, and her husband follows her, angry that she just humiliated him in front of everyone. He snatches the jug from her, and they get into a vicious pantomime argument, seeming about to come to blows as the turntable sweeps them out of sight.

*Felix’s Marius putting his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder as the latter sings “…before the barricades arise?” and smiling idealistically at Enjolras’s vision. This one quick moment establishes Marius’s devotion to Enjolras as a friend and to their cause, setting the stage for his inner conflict when romance threatens to interfere.

*Valjean hugging Cosette on “Cosette, my child, what will become of you?” and Cosette resting her head on his chest, as if she really did just have a bad fright and wants comfort. A sweet, tender father/daughter moment in a scene that’s not always played for tenderness… yet with a double edge, because Cosette is lying to Valjean to hide Marius’s presence.

*Enjolras rallying his friends during “One Day More!” Martin Berger doesn’t just stand with his rifle aloft throughout his solo lines: he does it briefly at first, but then he turns and interacts with the other Amis, touching their shoulders, addressing them individually, and actively being a leader and friend to them, not just a figurehead of revolution.

[vaggieslefteye]

YOU DIDN'T KNOW ↳ from Hazbin Hotel Season One (2024): 1x06 - "Welcome to Heaven"

[oozeandgoo-art]

oh right, i drew this the other day

[thelaurenshippen]

literally where is my next to normal movie. it's been fifteen years. who is keeping this from me.

[catboy-jupiter]

i'll be like "i'm a god of writing" and then an hour passes after i post or submit something and i'll be like "i'm so dumb there's so much i could've done better if only i'd waited a bit and looked at it with fresh eyes i would've noticed how much it sucks & what i could've improved that looks so much like first draft material there's so many revisions i could make why i am i so impulsive and overconfident" and then i'll start writing something else and be like "i'm a god of writing" again

[songstep4002]

The strange sapphic phenomenon where All Roads Lead to Hozier (for me at least):

Daisira is one of my favorite ships from the Magnus Archives. I love them so much, they're my tragic morally dubious scary lesbians and I go berserk for their moments. And my favorite animatic that's just for them? A Hozier song.

Katie McGrath was my bi awakening as Morgana in Merlin and over the course of my forays into Tumblr I have been transforming into one of the feral fans who wants to watch everything she's in. So when I find out she's in a music video and go watch it? A Hozier song.

Annapantsu is the YouTube cover artist that made me realize why YouTube cover artists are a thing. Her cover of House of Asmodeus made me gay panic so hard I forgot what gay panic was called. Occasionally she'll release a cover that elicits a similar response and it'll live rent free in my brain for weeks. The most recent of these? A Hozier song.

I'm not a hardcore Hozier fan, but if this trend keeps up, it likely won't be long.

[magicalgirl6]

I'm sure it's been talked about to death, but I just finished yuki yuna season 1 and wanted to talk about it. To be clear, this is fully my own thoughts and opinions. I think it's fully valid if other people feel differently. Also, I don't have the same disabilities as any of the characters, so I can't speak on representation of anything specific.

There were things I liked about the ending for sure. Yuna and Tougou had some very sweet moments, and I liked the emphasis on Yuna recovering through her own willpower rather than the gods' influence

But man I cannot overlook their disabilities being cured…

I understand, from a narrative perspective, that if a major part of the conflict is the gods taking away functionality in parts of your body as offerings, than the solution is taking it back from the gods. I understand that, if they didn't, it might feel like they lost. But they could still fight to break out of / change the system without all their losses being undone in the end!

I don't like disabilities being cured at the end of a story because it sends the message that you can't be disabled and have a happy ending. Like, being cured is the only happy ending. And I know the show wasn't trying to send this message, or at least I don't think it was, because Tougou had plenty of happy moments throughout the series. She was well-written as a wheelchair user, at least as far as I can tell as someone who doesn't use one. I think they did really well with her. But the ending still leaves a bad taste in my mouth because it does still imply that this was the only solution for them.

And I don't think there's anything wrong with the characters being upset after becoming disabled, or it messing with their self worth. Disability can be scary, especially when it's new, and in cases like Itsuki's it can mess with people's aspirations and drastically change the trajectory of people's lives. I think that that's accurate and real. I think they're allowed to be angry and upset for having so much taken from them. But I don't think them getting it back sends the best message to the audience. (And I feel like some of the stuff the characters said about Sonoko seemed kind of offensive? But idk if that was just the translation in the version of the subtitles I had)

I don't think I'll ever recover from my disability. It drastically messes with my life, it makes many things way more difficult, but I know it's not going away. I'm not mad about it anymore. I'm okay. I can still be happy and have a good life. So a story where the characters fully recover doesn't feel inspirational or motivating to me, it feels uncomfortable. I know disabilities can sometimes be recovered from, and I'm not trying to dismiss anyone's experiences, but as someone who won't recover, I'd find it much better to see characters thrive AND stay disabled.

It would still be a victory for them if they didn't have to fight and sacrifice anymore. It would still be a victory for them to keep on living after everything. They don't need a full recovery to be heroes.

[to-thelakes]

IT JUST OCCURED TO ME SPOTIFY WRAPPED SEASON IS NEARLY UPON US

[draco-renn]

Only now do I realize how deeply draining it is to interact with someone with low self-esteem... Like I get it, I've been there, but good god. How do you have such low self-esteem that you cycle back around to being the most obnoxiously self-absorbed person on the planet.

[seithr]

Randomly remembered the half-reason i call my oc-verse by the name it has while laying in bed. One-half of the reason i still knew, but I had forgotten what had truly, really cemented it jointly until now

(it was a song from my favourite band I haven't listened to in a while.)

(the song fit so well at the time, still does, that i needed to hold onto it for the main protagonists forever, by partially naming their story in reference.)

Does this explanation make any sense? Does anyone know why I'm tearing up remembering this. Aahh

[babsbabbles]

it's been a long time coming but I think I'm gonna try revamping my tumblr blog. that may include a new url but I'm not sure yet