#its a little bit fan-service...y

[marsantiquity]

SNIPER TF2 TEETH‼️‼️

"He's the old hand when it comes to having fangs. What a legend" - Smitty

[pookietv]

manager to missus | arthurtv

little social media au! arthur tv drabbly thing

first post! enjoy, sorry if it's a bit shit :3

liked by arthurtv, chrismd and 17,073 more

yourusername: turns out not being in london all the time isn't so bad, can actually see some stars in the sky

gkbarry: come back to london, i miss u x

↳ yourusername: i miss u more, ready for the podcast when you are

georgeclarkey: never thought i'd say this but please come back, chris cannot do anything without you sorting it out

↳ yourusername: afraid to tell you you will be stuck with chris for a little longer, suck it up

arthurtv: hope you're having a good time!

↳ yourusername: thanks arthur! will have to catch up when i'm back :)

↳ georgeclarkey: @/yourusername how come you're nice to him and i get told to suck it up ??

↳ yourusername: @/georgeclarkey thats because i like arthur more then you, glad we cleared that up x

chrismd10: slacking from work, typical

↳ yourusername: if you had to work with you, you would slack too x

liked by georgeclarkey, arthur tv and 23,803 more

yourusername: if i have to go to one more cold place for the sake of filming i fear i may actually kill one of the boys

faithlouisak: kill ethan if you want, i might get some peace then x

↳ yourusername: on it, i think i was debating it after he flashed his arse at the camera anyways x

maxbaledge: don't come back with them, life without george has been incredible x

↳ yourusername: i will try my best x

chrismd10: you have to admit i was the least annoying this time

↳ yourusername: i fear you are incorrect, you were easily the most annoying

↳ chrismd10: what ?? propaganda going on here

↳ yourusername: you literally almost smashed me in the face with a football

↳ chrismd10: was just trying to fix your face for you

↳ yourusername: and you say you're not annoying??

arthurtv: i am with you on this i do not want to be cold any longer

↳ yourusername: we should unionise against chris together x

↳ arthurtv: time and place and i'll be there

liked by arthurtv, bambinobecky and 25,930 more

yourusername: so apparently i'm twenty four now, not a big fan, feeling quite old. at least i got to get very smashed to ignore it! ps, thank you everyone for coming <3

bambinobecky: glad u had a good night, was so lovely to see you x

↳ yourusername: absolutely, you too! glad you were there to neck pints with me in solidarity x

↳ bambinobecky: anytime, what i was built for x

chrismd10: i will forever hate you for guilt tripping me into doing all those shots just because it was your birthday

↳ yourusername: don't lie, you loved it

arthurtv: couldn't have missed it, drunk y/n is one of the best things out there

↳ yourusername: glad to be of service

arthurtv: also the first photo is very pretty

↳ yourusername: going to make me blush mr television

↳ arthurtv: sorry but not

gkbarry: picking you up from the bottom of your own stairs after tumbling down them was a real bonding experience x

↳ yourusername: stop outing me on the main, i'm trying (and failing) to be classy x

georgeclarkey: glad you had a good night!

↳ yourusername: crazy that you're only nice to me when its my birthday

liked by arthurtv, georgeclarkey and 24,903 more. tagged, arthurtv

yourusername: well.. cats out of the bag ?

arthurtv: surprised it didn't come out sooner with chris' fat mouth

↳ chrismd10: hey i hid it for a while ! was getting bored

liked by bambinobecky, arthurhill and 32,048 more tagged, yourusername

arthurtv: to those who said i'd never go anywhere in life, i got a hot gf so

yourusername: clearly your biggest accomplishment

↳ arthurtv: too real it hurts

[mirnilop]

𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ wally darling

⚠ tags: sfw, mob au, yandere!wally, gn!singer!reader, power imbalance, discussions of violence

♡ synopsis: you’d be surprised how many fans you accrue as a small-time lounge singer. while this is usually a good thing, one of yours happens to rule half the city, so he isn’t exactly receptive to the word “no”.

♡ word count: 5,310

⛧ﾐ‧*･ﾟ the following content may be triggering to some. please proceed with caution! ･ﾟ*‧ミ⛧

a/n: hello!! ₍ᐢ.ˬ.⑅ᐢ₎ goshh, my very first post on this acc!! i haven’t posted fanfic in a hot minute but i’m suuuper excited to get back into it!! 💞 i have sooo many wips for this fandom, it was difficult to choose which one to finish first! credit to @/clownsuu for creating the au and for the lovely art!! i tweaked the concept a wee bit so that it takes place in a roger rabbit-esque world where puppets and humans live together unharmoniously (with a jessica rabbit inspired reader ofc >v>). it was a lot of fun trying to marry wally's canon personality with a Scary Mob Boss (*´ 艸`) i can't wait to post more!! what are y'all's favourite aus? let me know!! ･*･:≡(　ε:)

There’s a rose on your vanity.

The sight of it snuffs out your high spirits, irritation igniting in its place– and it was such a good day, too! You and the girls were perfectly in sync for your entire performance, bolstered by the unusually affable audience; you even rewarded them with a sneak peek of new material, which made them go wild!

Dreams of stomping it beneath your heel stew in your head as you drop it in the faience vase at the rim of the mirror, where a crinkled, beige-tipped rose droops against the rim. Why not break the vase too? An idea that’s crossed your mind too many times, and while it gets harder to resist with each flower, you endure it. They’re presents, after all, and you doubt your admirer would take kindly to the news that you’ve trashed them. You’re certain one of his minions would obtain the evidence, if not witness you do it; you can’t pinpoint the extent to which they survey you, but the crawling sensation of eyes on your back crops up often, and obviously they have no problem barging into your dressing room to play delivery service.

Sighing, you comb through your rolling rack to pick a suitable outfit to change into. Most of the articles hanging are also gifts, but you’ve made sure to keep some of your own hard-earned clothes here out of sheer spite. A burgundy cashmere number has just slipped into your grasp when the door bursts open.

“How’s that for a show?! And what a great crowd, a whole buncha dolls! Or– well, puppets– and humans! Hahaha!”

Lottie skips in with her usual energy, the bell on her collar jingling alongside the clack of her Mary Janes. You hate that their manager mandates the bells as a part of their costumes, as if puppets being treated like second-class citizens wasn’t enough. “You wanna make money or not? It’s part of the appeal! You know, Mary Had A Little Lamb and all that!” is what he told you after one of your countless tirades regarding his treatment of them, but the sleazy smirk wrapped around his cheap cigarette allowed you to read between the lines. As much as you despise that man, it’s not your business to judge the trio for staying contracted with him. Mottie’s recalled to you how difficult it was to hire a manager at all, and you suppose you have to (begrudgingly) thank him for bringing them into your life, since he’s the one who bagged them the backup singer gig.

A swell of color in your peripheral lets you know that she’s come near, but you don’t bother diverting attention from your search. This is such a common occurrence between you two that pleasantries are no longer required.

“And they were mighty generous with the tips! So me and the gals was thinking we should go somewhere to… celebrate…”

Hearing her trail off, you turn to find her staring at the new rose, her once-perky ears fallen limp. You click your tongue, remorse prickling your heart, though you’ve done nothing wrong.

“I’ll be alright, Lottie. Here,” You grab a wad of bills from your personal tip jar and fold them into her hand. “You take your sisters somewhere nice, my treat. As an apology for having to skip out tonight.”

When she doesn’t move from her spot, merely pouting at you with big, glistening eyes full of concern, you swaddle her in a hug. Fleecy strands of shell pink hair tickle your nose as she nestles her snout into your shoulder, squeezing you like a lifebuoy. Having her in your arms is a vital reminder as to why you continue to put up with everything. Lottie, Dottie and Mottie are your beloved friends– your family when you had none– and you are willing to do whatever is necessary to build a life with them.

“Are ya sure?”

“Positive. And if that bug gives you even a whiff of trouble, you come get me right away, got it?”

She laughs, the sound a balm to the ache of your worries. “He never gives us any trouble– n’fact, I haven’t heard ‘im say a single word!”

“Good. At least one of them has manners. Now go have fun!”

After a few more hugs and a promise to relay your apology to her sisters, she trots towards the entrance. Halfway through it, she pauses.

“Promise ya’ll play nice?”

An involuntary grimace twists your face, which you smooth immediately.

“I was planning on it,” you concede, earning an exhale of relief from Lottie.

“Thanks. Honestly, I’m kinda worried...” She leans against the doorframe, gaze trained on the checkered floor. “I see more and more of that Napoleon-wannabe’s goons lately. Do ya think he’s gettin’ antsy? It’s been real quiet since that incident with Dorelaine.”

Ah, the incident. It happened a handful of months ago; he refused to go into specifics, but what you’ve gathered from his gnomic recount and various news stories is that their rival organization– led by Ronald Dorelaine, a human man– planted explosives somewhere important, racking up thousands in damages and dismembering several puppets, left to be mended with those horrific stitches. You didn’t receive another rose until several weeks afterwards.

“I can’t be sure,” you admit. “He doesn’t tell me much about the goings-on of the ‘family’, not that I care to know. But I noticed he’s been more wound up lately… maybe they’re going to retaliate?”

A visible shudder travels through Lottie, and she tosses her head as if to ward off the gravity of your predicament. It was easier to ignore the implications when there wasn’t an active turf battle.

“You’re right, we should stay as far as we can from that nasty business. Wear the red, then. To butter ‘im up a little.” She offers you a conflicted half-smile, most likely holding herself back from proposing a makeover, before sidling out the door.

Glowering, you follow the advice, shucking your tight, shimmering stage outfit for the cozy cashmere you were eyeing before. Like I need to be reminded of his favorite color. I’ve practically lived in red since I met him. It inexplicably fits like a glove, as do all of the clothes you've been bestowed; for the sake of your sanity, you prevent yourself from delving too far into that subject.

As you fix the little bits of your appearance that got mussed up during your performance, you can’t help but contemplate hiding in your room until morning, even though you know it wouldn’t work– and you’d have to pay for a broken front door. Once every speck of lint has been removed and your ensemble is flawless, you steel your resolve with a hard look in the mirror. If things go south, at least you’ll make a gorgeous open casket.

You step into your shoes and out of the dressing room, swiping your bag and a matching hat from the plethora that dangle on knobs affixed to the wall along the way. The haze that eternally permeates the lounge envelops you as you walk, no longer springing tears to your eyes like it did so long ago, when you were a starry-eyed fledgling. Upon entering the foyer, you call out to the owner, Gene, who’s counting the register behind the bar.

“Hey, I’m heading out!”

“Geez, you’re in a hurry! Got a hot date or what?”

“Something like that,” you breathe, your nerves relighting tenfold now that you’re so close to the outside.

“Ahh, I getcha.” His amusement is clear, construing an innuendo within your words that is absolutely not there, but you’d rather die than clarify. “You did a great job today, you deserve it!”

Somehow, your admirer has managed to limbo directly under Gene’s nose; thus far he’s made no indication that he’s aware he has a very important patron. For a moment, you observe him, and see how he absentmindedly rubs the pocket of his button-up– where a polaroid of his two children is safely tucked away– and you decide that it’s probably for the best.

“Thanks, Gene. Have a good one.”

“You too!”

His reply barely reaches you as you cross the threshold from the comfort of your work into the cold, pensive night. A luckier soul may have suffered a fright when greeted with the colossal figure standing below the street light, carved with shadow, but it’s a familiar sight to you now. An inconspicuous black car is parked behind him.

“Hi Howdy.”

“Evening, Mx.” He bows slightly, whisking open the sleek passenger door which you reluctantly slide inside.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I do have a name.” It’s true. Being addressed formally by such an important figure imbues you a with a sick feeling, like he’s won, and you’ve already been initiated into this fucked up institution.

Though he waits for you to finish speaking before shutting you in, he doesn’t grace you with a response; not that you were expecting one. In all the times he’s escorted you to these duress-dates, as you’ve taken to calling them, he’s remained stoic to a mechanical degree, acknowledging your presence and nothing more. Thrashing, crying, screaming– you’ve tried everything to escape, and have never elicited a reaction more severe than that of a tired parent handling a tantrum. If you resist, he simply manhandles you. It’s hardly a fair match, with him having 4 arms and several feet of height on you, so you opt to reserve your energy for dealing with his headache of a boss.

When he hauls his many limbs onto the driver’s seat, the car lurches, too small to accommodate a puppet of his stature; he has to hunch forward to see the windshield, antennae pushed flat. You lean back and vacantly turn towards the window, wondering if cars big enough for someone like him to drive comfortably even exist while the engine rumbles to life.

The umbrous cityscape passes you by, inklings of humans and puppets flashing in and out of the darkness like ghosts. Thick boughs of red and green tinsel are strung across a few lamp posts, but by the end of the season they’ll all be covered. Dottie’s already triple checked that you and her sisters have one day of the annual Christmas market off, even though you strike the same deal with Gene every year; the four of you get Saturday, then he gets Sunday to take his family. It’s one of your favorite times of the year, if only because you get to experience the aura of wonder that enlivens Lottie when the first snow falls, Mottie’s timid wheedling to attend The Nutcracker, and Dottie’s alphabetically-organized checklist of fun winter activities.

Those cheerful thoughts are wiped away as Howdy turns into a private garage attached to a sleek, angular skyscraper. He parks in the spot nearest to the entrance, the first in a row of spaces labeled with metal “Reserved for Staff” signs, and circles the car to let you out. The sensation of him gingerly lifting you comes with no alarm; he always assists you up the concrete stairs leading to the elevator, as if you’re so physically inept you can’t handle 3 tiny steps. You assume his needless precaution is for the same reason he hasn’t beaten you yet despite defying him so often: boss’s orders.

With a reedy knell, the elevator glides open, and Howdy signals for you to go ahead. Once you’re both inside, he inserts a key and presses the button for the uppermost level. Expecting a noiseless ride, you tune into the low muzak emitting from the speakers, which makes you miss the first time he calls you.

“Mx.”

Startled, you swivel towards him. His steadfast profile is unreadable.

“Boss doesn’t know you’ve opposed him so vehemently in the past. Please keep that in mind tonight.”

The entrance broaches before you can interrogate him as to what the hell he means, granting you entry to a luxury penthouse laved in gold, ivory, and– of course– red. A glimmering chandelier suspends from the ornamental ceiling, bathing the antique furniture in an amber glow. If you hadn’t just ridden up the elevator, you would have assumed such a lavish drawing room belonged to an old mansion.

It’s something straight out of a romance novel, except instead of a chiseled, broody Italian, it’s a short puppet sitting at the marble-topped dining table. He lounges at the head in a slate blue silk suit with its jacket buttoned to the top; an honor seemingly reserved solely for you, because it’s the only way you’ve seen him wear it, despite street tales describing the way it billows from his shoulders as he stalks the town. Revealed by its plunged neckline is the collar of a white dress shirt embossed with rainbow pinstripes, and a red ascot neatly tied and pulled askant around his throat.

Wally Darling, in the felt: kingpin of The Neighborhood, and resident thorn in your side.

When you arrive, he rises to meet you, dismissing Howdy with a pointed glance; you’ve learned that the relationship between a crime lord and his loyal bandog transcends language. You watch him as he leaves through a pair of swinging doors to the left, his cryptic advice-slash-warning heavy on your mind.

And so, you find yourself alone with the most dangerous man in the city– puppet or otherwise.

“Good evening, dearest. I hope my gift found you well.”

The concept of personal space might as well be Greek to Wally, since he hasn’t once respected it from the day you had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. He crowds so close that you have to crane your neck to see his face, the heat emanating from him eliciting shivers in your chill-soaked body.

“Yes, thank you. It was quite a lively night,” you chirp, wielding a civil smile.

Although the contours of his wispy, coiffed curls only reach your ribs, he extends his arm to you, which you take with such a featherlight hold that you barely brush his sleeve. Rather than leading you to the dining table like you expected, you’re guided towards a small lounge area to the side, the crackling croon of Billie Holiday wafting over from a refurbished stereo console in the corner. Oh, great. He’s feeling sentimental.

“Would you indulge me with a dance before dinner?”

Don't have much of a choice, do I?

“I’d love to.”

Dancing with Wally is funny, in an ironic sort of way; it certainly caught you off guard the first time he asked. When you envision dancing with a powerful, deadly mobster, you think of being swept away, wrapped snugly by strong arms and a dastardly smirk, or perhaps something more courtly, like a waltz steered by a polite hand on your waist. Turns out both versions are incorrect.

Muscle memory ushers your arms open, and Wally falls into the space in between them– literally. Slack against you, his full weight is heftier than his height would imply, but not physically uncomfortable– emotionally and morally, however, are another story. An air of pure peace washes over him as his cheek nuzzles the underside of your chest, arms limp at his sides; you swear you even hear a little trill. Your face burns, but you say nothing as you begin to sway faintly to the beat, tracing a loop with your feet as you traipse along. Wally follows easily, tethered by the reluctant cage of your embrace.

“Do you remember the night we met?”

The query is felt more than heard, his gentle monotone muffled by the downy fabric of your garb. You huff softly to yourself, rustling a few gel-slick strands atop his pompadour.

“How could I forget?”

The day the infamous Mr. Darling appeared in your club, his two largest henchmen in tow, is burned into your brain like a regrettable tattoo; Gene was off, so you were covering entertainment for the night while the sisters managed the bar and floor. As you were singing the very song playing now, you detected a curious hush that had overtaken the throng of guests, and strained to cut through the stage glare and cigarette fog to locate the cause. Tracking the audience, who were all regarding the bar with varying amounts of subtlety, you nearly dropped the microphone when you saw the broad blue back of Barnaby B. Beagle, someone you’d only heard of in gossip. He gesticulated as he spoke boisterously to poor Mottie, who was as white as a sheet behind the counter. Situated a slight ways away was Howdy Pillar, who stood as motionless as a statue with both sets of forelimbs fastened behind him.

And then you noticed him. A puppet no more than 4 feet tall, but whose oppressive presence commanded full attention. He paid no mind to the (one-sided) conversation between his colleague and your friend– no, he was staring right at you. Boring into you so acutely that you felt pinned, compelled somehow to continue singing until the final note trickled away.

As if a spell had been broken, you leapt from the platform and scurried to Mottie, who stayed petrified even when you tried to covertly nudge her to the side. How avidly you wished a fissure would open beneath their shoes and swallow them whole; but, armed with years of appeasing difficult and sordid customers, you spoke.

“Evening, fellas. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Barnaby, who had stopped talking when you rounded the bar, bellowed a laugh.

“Fellas?! Is that any way to greet the boss and I?"

He tilted forward with menacing glee, propped up by furry elbows as his claws scraped the laminate countertop. Each of his fangs were as big as your nose.

"Dontcha know who we are, toots? Or do ya just need a refresher on respect?"

The acrid smoke from his cigar blew directly into your face, making spikes of anger bubble in your belly as you choked back a cough. Just when you felt composed enough to reply, a surprisingly mellow voice chimed in.

"It's alright, Barnaby."

The shock slacking his jaw mirrored yours, although you hid it under a mask of cool indifference. You dared a glance at Mr. Darling, but the pressure of his peer chased your gaze back to Barnaby, who grumbled as he straightened back up. It was difficult to stay trained on his good eye, but you soldiered on. Fear was not something you could afford to show, and you knew you'd crumble if you peeked at the fabled gaping socket that he stapled open himself.

"I don't suppose you're Gene Clifton, aged 54, father of two, owner of this joint?" He joked, recovered from the flub.

"No, sir, but my banker would sure be happy if I was. Can I take down a message?"

"A message! I love this bird!" Snickering cruelly, he waved a flippant paw. "Y'should try that material on stage sometime, might bring ya more customers than the singing bit."

You sucked a sharp inhale up your nose. Serenity now.

"See, here's the problem. This is family territory, and in return for our protection, we charge a teensy fee. Now, we ain't unreasonable– we've sent ole Gene a few letters. And what’s our thanks for such humble hospitality? Zilch."

Oh dear. Gene doesn't bother investigating any mail the lounge receives before tossing it because it’s typically adverts. He definitely would've noted The Neighborhood's seal if he did. Regardless, the frank abuse of power only fanned your annoyance, obscuring your better judgment.

"What protection? I don't recall seeing any of your members patrolling outside. Besides, we didn’t ask for protection."

Mottie snapped towards you, looking as though she might faint. The corner of Barnaby's mouth twitched skyward, like he was hoping you'd argue, but his boss beat him to the punch.

"We can reach an agreement, I’m sure. I'd hate to see a family establishment go under, especially when they have such lovely entertainment."

Apparently Wally was so smitten that he'd accept your company in lieu of money, and so the agreement (if you can even call it that, since you were coerced) was this– whenever a rose was delivered to you, you'd attend a rendezvous with him. When you returned to your dressing room later that evening, you discovered the first gift of several: your vase.

“I knew because of your eyes.”

The floral wallpaper in front of you shifts back into focus, Wally’s voice shaking you from your recollection.

“Pardon?”

“That night, you drew me in; I couldn’t concentrate on anything else, least of all a petty protection tax. And I knew I had to have you when I met your eyes.” He sounds dreamy, reminiscing as you were before, though his framing of events is worlds apart from your own; he recalls a destined encounter with his future partner, whereas you mark it the day your wings were clipped for good.

“They shone like stars, even through the smog.”

It’s only after he’s finished that you realize you’ve stopped moving, wrapped in an intimate hug like true lovers. A strange mix of pride and disgust floods you at the compliment, stomach flip-flopping rapidly.

He untangles from you, receding so that only your hands remain connected. The newfound distance eases some of your tension, but to your horror, you find yourself mourning the loss of the husky scent of his cologne. Loath as you are to admit it, the bastard smells amazing: a dark, leathery swirl of apples and saffron that you’d buy out if someone turned it into a candle.

“Let’s not delay any longer. You must be starving.”

True to his gentlemanly veneer, he seats you at the table before settling himself. You don’t see him call, but a server emerges immediately from the doors through which Howdy left with a tray of appetizers.

There are two graces you award Wally Darling: his excellent taste in cologne, and his staff’s Michelen-quality fare. Though they adopt the four courses typical of fine dining, the dishes are more grounded, toeing the border between grandma and Gordon Ramsay perfectly. Truthfully, you’re not even sure what to categorize it as; virtually everything is transfigured into a jello, pie, or salad, harkening back to the post-war cookbooks you used to gawk at as a child in your late mother’s library. The yellowed pictures in those books appeared extremely unappetizing, but somehow The Neighborhood makes it work.

It could be because of an illusive member named Poppy, one of the 7 who make up Wally’s illustrious inner circle. She’s scarcely seen due to her fretful and skittish nature, but Wally lauds her cooking and baking skills, regaling you in the past with plenty of kitchen mishaps that occurred when she tried to decompress by experimenting with recipes and was interrupted by their more excitable comrades. If you remember correctly, he once told you that most of the menus in rotation were created by her.

The nature of these duress-dates is wholly dependent on Wally’s mood– if he’s happy, then he’ll gladly chat your ear off about frivolous happenings in his and his friends’ private lives, though he takes care to be shrewd with any details that dive too deep into the murky underbelly lying just below. If he’s unhappy, then they can be utterly unbearable; his mere existence puts you on edge, so it’s exponentially worse when he’s out of sorts, tone curt and glare fierce.

Thankfully, he’s amiable tonight. The first 3 courses march on without incident, and painless conversation flows between the two of you, even if he does most of the talking– you’re not exactly eager to share more than you have to. It’s when the server presents dessert that things go awry.

“Say, how are those triplets you work with doing?” Wally says, spooning at the Bananas Foster. “I haven’t had the pleasure of catching a performance since our mishap a while back. So much paperwork, so little time, you know how it is.”

The mention of both your friends and the aforementioned Dorelaine incident have you bristling reflexively, but you do your best to tamp it down.

“They’re well, overall. Sometimes it’s difficult for them– their manager’s a real piece of work, and we get all types at the lounge.”

“I see…”

He lets out a long “hmmmm”, like he’s reflecting on this information.

“My family has also come upon hard times. It can be… trying, sometimes, to guide my children. Especially now, when we are under unjust attack.” He confesses, wistfully resting his chin on a thread-scarred palm. “Every family requires a head, but what is a head without a neck?”

Unjust my ass. Still, the weird metaphor confuses you.

“A neck?”

At that, his catlike grin only grows. What is he talking about?

“Yes, a neck; that is, someone who supports the head. I care for my family, so it’s only right I am cared for in return, wouldn’t you say?”

Though the phrasing is puzzling, you’re fairly confident you can infer what he’s purposefully dangling in front of you, and oh, it makes your stomach plummet. Sweat breaks out underneath your suddenly-sweltering outfit; it's as if you've been tied to a railroad and have managed to divert the train through pure will for a year, but now it's steamrolling square for you. The anxiety of impending doom renders you mute, unable to piece together a coherent thought.

Taking your silence in stride, Wally leans forward, intense as he grasps your hand in both of his own. The yellow fuzz does nothing to help how clammy you feel.

“What I mean to say is, I think that it’s time to settle down."

No.

“Wh– what? Settle down how?”

“To get married, silly.”

You’re unable to help the gasp that escapes you. No, no, no!

“Get married? You mean– to me?!”

“Of course. I’ve been courting you all this time, haven’t I?”

You sputter, and he rubs your hand as if to soothe you. His many gold rings gleam under the chandelier, teasing a glimpse of your fate.

“I know in the beginning you weren’t receptive to the idea of this life, but I've shown you that I can provide for you better than anyone else.”

Your expression must betray your surprise, because he chuckles– a slow, stilted sound that sends gooseflesh blooming across your skin.

“You thought I didn’t know? Howdy may not have reported it– which I’ll rectify in due time– but I have eyes everywhere, dear. You’re quite the talented actor, though.”

That trademark simper melts into something beguiling; he cradles you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“I love you, and I will take care of you, as I ask you to do for me. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

An inviting facade of genuine affection, so ardent that you almost want to believe it. Wouldn’t that be the easiest path to take? To surrender to the hand that feeds, because where it strangles others, it caresses you sweetly? It’s more tempting than you’d ever divulge, because underneath the armor of aplomb you've so carefully forged, you're exhausted. This burden has been yours alone to bear– and what a bear it is, because if you mess up, the people you love could be injured, or worse. So much worse.

Perhaps sensing an opening, Wally continues.

“Be reasonable. The family welcomes you with open arms! Haven’t you missed having a family?"

The words stab you right through the heart, and your waning resolve springs back tenfold by the fury that ruddies your vision. When you rip your hand away, he makes no move to stop you.

"My friends are my family. I don’t want anyone else, especially not murderers!” You snarl. “You kill people– and torture and maim them! How can you expect me to accept this?!"

"All in a day's work when cleaning up the city, unfortunately," Wally hums. "I wish we didn't have to resort to such things, but you must understand. As it is, puppets are treated as less than, and hardship runs rampant for both humans and puppets alike. You’ve experienced these firsthand.” With the elegance of a master conman, he touches his chest in mock respire. “All we wish to do is provide a safe haven for those in need– somewhere to rest your bones, enjoy a hot meal, and where everyone accepts you as their own. A home.”

You abruptly stand up, feeling like you’re wound so taut that you could erupt at any moment. The mahogany chair behind you tips over from the force, striking the floor with a leaden thud, though the sound is deafened by the blood rushing in your ears.

“Bullshit! You don’t have to start a gang to combat discrimination or help suffering people! Maybe that spiel works on the poor saps you trick into doing your dirty work, but it won’t work on me. The answer is no.”

All is still for a moment as you struggle to calm your heaving breaths, trembling and locked in a quiet stalemate with Wally, who’s as relaxed as ever. Your attention flits from his right eye to where the left would be, if not for the lesion carved from a notch above his eyelid to an inch below, giving the illusion that what lies beneath is impaled.

Oh shit.

The magnitude of what just transpired comes crashing down as your adrenaline flushes out. After playing it safe for months– stomaching unwanted exorbitant gifts, being tailed by his employees, and rousted to innumerous “dates”– you just rejected Wally Darling in the most aggressive way possible. So you do the only thing that might garner you a chance to make it out of this alive: run.

You’re halfway across the room when 4 thick arms suddenly wrangle and force you to halt, a scream ripping itself from your throat out of fear. Can this motherfucker teleport now?! How the hell did he get here so fast?? Thrashing, you throw your head back to search Howdy’s face, desperate for an ounce of the sympathy he’d offered in the elevator, but it is in vain; his stony visage is impenetrable, as though it had never wavered.

“How about you sleep on it, hm? Think about all of your options. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to those little lambs when their adorable shepherd isn’t around to protect them.”

Delicate fingers cup your jaw, making you freeze as Wally stretches up to plant a faux-kiss on your cheek, complete with a small “mwah!”. You scowl daggers at him as he collects your hat from where it flew to the floor, dusts it off, and lovingly places it back on your head before giving you a few pats.

“Aw, don’t be that way, darling. I truly meant what I said; you have beautiful eyes. I can hardly wait to try one on.”

With a snap, you’re hauled over Howdy’s back and spirited out of the room, presumably to be transported to wherever you’ll be staying. Hopefully not Wally’s quarters.

It’s all too much; you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare. How else did you expect this to end? You’re not sure. With all of the awful things he’s done, forcing you into marriage is not beyond him. You just thought you’d have more time: to plan, to save up enough money to take the girls and race to the hills.

Tears gather on your waterlines, and the minute your mouth wobbles, they spill ceaselessly. Full-bodied sobs wrack you, the pain of Howdy’s shoulder jutting into your midsection compounding the profound ache of sorrow. All this time, you’ve been trying to fight, but there was no fight to be had; it ended the moment his eyes found yours across the lounge that day.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

It's Valentine day, and some fan service when Crewel daughter lost a bet and wearing a bunny outfit that hugs her curvs bit too well ( think of Jessica Rabbit level of sexy ) and all confident of her body as she sings on stage for them

All the boys reaction seeing both display and the show

I'm not doing all of them

🖤🖤🖤🖤

Valentines Performance | Yandere TWST x Crewel Daughter Reader

First and foremost Crewel’s daughter never loses a bet

But charity does look good on her record so she’d do it

Heck you might even suggest it

“What? I know from my head to my toes that I’m practically irresistible. Of course you’d want me to be the main performance.”

You wouldn’t do it for just some boys wishing to ogle you for their own desires

That would be of no benefit to you

In fact, you’d force Crowley to pay

Who in turn forces your admirers to cough up a significant amount

But if you’re going to go through the trouble of dressing up and performing it will be for a good cause and for a good paycheck

So many lonely, sad people on such a day is something a princess shouldn’t ignore

If you have curves than great but even without you’re just as alluring 

But like everything you do it has the boys drooling:

Azul Ashengrotto

He was proud to be apart of the latest cashgrab charity that the school was fundraising

And he was even happier to call upon you under that pretense

Its been years since he’s heard you sing

He can only imagine what its like now 

And with the excuse of being practice he’ll hear the chords you so casually ring out as the charity dinner is mapped out

But only when you’re fully made up and singing does he feel like his investment was truly worth it

“A-a-ah (Y/n) that was–”

“Amazing, I know. I can tell you’re excited but don’t go inking all over the floor before the finale.”

“Y-yeah.”

He really does have to stop himself 

He’s just so enamored 

One day he’ll have to ask trick you into singing a serenade to him

“A mate’s song needs to be, at the very least, decent enough to attract. Naturally, (Y/n) would exceed that, she truly is a prime mate and the only one I’d ever bother chasing after.”

Kalim Al Asim

He loves that you’re scheduled to perform

Money isn’t an object anyway so he’s happy to pad your paycheck and donation

He just loves loves loves anything you do 

You could go outside in a chicken wunzie and sing horribly he’d still fling his money in your direction

But as he watches you appear on stage make up done, dress hugging tight something burns

His cheeks get warm and suddenly his clothes feel too hot to wear

A yearning that Kalim barely acknowledges to dangerous takes over and he’s in a daze for the entirety of the night

Don’t interrupt the performance 

Don’t bother him while he’s watching you sing in that sultry tone

Or you can see what its like when Jamil’s happy to follow Kalim’s orders+

“(Y/n) you should sing more often! Your voice is so beautiful!” 

“Thank you, Kalim.”

“Will you be doing another set? I’d love to play along side you!”

He’ll be replaying your performance in his head for years to come

Always letting a smile come to his face

“Wow I can’t get her voice out of my head! Maybe I should ask her to sing to me everynight!”

Vil Schoenheit

If he isn’t hired himself to join you he’ll donate his talent with a small fee

But to be seen by millions as the most beautiful dream couple 

Neige could never

But ego aside he loves nothing more than performing with you side by side

Brought back to the days you two would make little plays and shows for your fathers to watch 

Now this was just fate in work, wasn’t it

That you two would be preparing a duet that’d have the world talking for weeks 

“Are you ready to delivery our harmony of ecstasy?”

“You know I am. I like your trim by the way.”

“And I yours. Though we both know anything you wear is better than couture.”

For this moment and this moment only will he encourage the hunter to share his recordings

He won’t be able to hear your voice out in the crowd

But it couldn’t compare to the sound of being beside you

As it was always meant to be

“Becoming a duo? Who’s to say? We both have big plans for the future but naturally we’ll be together asitsalwaysbeen.”

[rintarousgirl]

i wanna be yours -- 1. why'd you only ever call me when you're high?

✦ - Y/N is a small business owner, offering her services not only as a designer but an at-home makeup artist and cosmetic producer as well. She's perfectly content with her small life when she's approached by the manager of the INARIZAKI band, asking for her to fill the position of backstage artist on short notice. Needing the money, and wanting the experience, Y/N agrees. Little does she know of the fatal attraction she will share with the band's lead, Suna Rintarou.

»»————-　★　————-««

The smell of caramel and cocoa hung in the air of the small coffee shop as you worked silently. Your laptop sat on the table in front of you while you sewed a small rip in one of your client's commissions. You weren't the biggest seamstress, but you did it pretty well by hand and it went by a lot quicker and smoother for you then doing it with a machine.

You loved coming to the coffee shop to get your work done. The smell of roast and warm pastries soothed you, and the large, iced coffee you always ordered remained one of your favorite drinks. No other place was able to make it the way you liked it like this place did.

Putting down your commission, you took a sip of your coffee, relishing in its taste. You breathed out a sigh and wiped your lipgloss off the straw. You were about to scroll through a few unanswered emails when a man slides into the other half of the booth you occupied.

Blinking, you took in the sight of him, and your eyes met hazel ones. "Um, hello," you said, feeling a spark of uncomfort grow in you. The man gave a small smile, holding a drink of his own.

"Hello. I'm hoping you're Ms. Y/N?"

You ran the possibilities through your mind. He could be a sales marketer, or a fan. Though, it was weird to run into a fan of your rather small business in your rather small town in an even smaller coffee shop. Unnerved, you gave a nod.

"Good, that makes things a lot easier. I don't want to scare you, but I have been looking into your business as an artist and designer. I'm Kita Shinsuke, and I have a job proposition for you."

Swallowing around a lump in your throat, you said, "Go ahead."

He takes a small sip of his drink, before clearing his throat. "I'm sure you've heard of the band INARIZAKI?"

You snorted. "Who hasn't?" you asked jokingly. The band was popular, known for its amazing talent and "hot" members. You hadn't heard much of their music, but they sounded good enough on the radio when you drove. You knew Kuroo was a bit of a fan, but that's all the exposure you had.

Running a small business, you don't have a lot of time to engage in things you may like. You were constantly running yourself ragged trying to ship out the right number of orders with perfect quality to your clients. You couldn't even count how many nights you'd stayed up till the birds began to chirp trying to package and create things. You may have overestimated your abilities to sell your own makeup, clothes, and other cute things along with being an at-home makeup artist. But you wouldn't stop for the world.

Kita agreed with a small chuckle. "Well, I am their manager. Due to unfortunate circumstances our current makeup artist and outfit coordinator left our team. Obviously, we wouldn't want any big faces on our team as we'd like to keep it small for the privacy of our band members. You were recommended to me through a friend, and I was told how to approach you."

You tried to think of your recent clients, and their backgrounds. Off the top of your head, none of them seemed famous enough to know the manager of the INARIZAKI band. Unless it were Bokuto or Kenma, but you're pretty sure they wouldn't talk with them either.

You had to admit, he was piquing your interest.

"So, Ms. Y/N. It isn't anything set in stone yet, but could we arrange something? I'm aware this is very short notice, but we have a small concert three nights from now and I'm afraid I am not well-versed enough to do it myself. Try it out, see if you'd like the gig, and we'll see how it goes.

"It is very sudden," you say, thinking back to all the projects you had at home. But you didn't have any makeup gigs as of recent, just small shipping's and your own personal life. You could do it, probably. "Let me check my calendar."

Kita nodded. "Of course."

You ignored your emails once more, and clicked on your calendar tab. You were right. Any bookings weren't for another week at the least, and most of your current commissions were small things like scarves or sweaters. Well, you had those specialized kneepads to work on for Bokuto's birthday two weeks from now, but you had some free time.

"I could do that, yeah," you say, smiling at him. Kita seemed nice and pretty harmless, and you had heard the name before. You trusted him, even if it was stupid to say.

Kita's small smile grows into something a little hopeful. "Wonderful. I've already emailed you before this, but I hadn't gotten a response. So, you have my contact information. May I have your email?"

You nod, writing it down on a pad of paper for him. He pockets it. "I'm going to set up something with the band as a meeting before the concert. Most likely a dinner tomorrow night, does that sound good?"

"Just send me the details!" you beam, giving him a thumbs up.

He gets up to leave, but you grab onto his sleeve. He turns, cup in hand. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity, really. I'm very excited."

Kita looks down to his shoes for a second, as if in thought, then his hazel eyes snap back up to you. "I should be the one thanking you for accepting so suddenly. You're really saving my job, Y/N."

"I wouldn't say so. You do a lot for the band as manager. If you didn't, you wouldn't have found me."

"I suppose you're right."

Kita leaves after that, and you turn to face the coffee table. Shock begins to register within your body. Did that really just happen? Your fingers shake, and you know you won't be able to get any sewing done for a while.

This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Kita said he'd emailed you before. What if he hadn't been so determined as to hunt you down? Would you have missed this just because you slacked off on checking your emails?

God.

You take out your phone, and open twitter. Talking about your issues on social media always got a laugh out of your friends.

༻✦༺

༻✦༺ next -> | masterlist

fun fact(s)!:

y/n and akaashi were the first friends out of the group, dating all the way back to high school. akaashi's overprotective of her like a brother, and they hang out the most. akaashi introduced her to bokuto at vb when she became the manager for his team and then to kuroo and kenma.

kita regularly goes to the same coffee shop y/n was at with aran. he just happened to run into her there picking up coffees for the two of them.

taglist:

@alienvarmint | @sunarots | @mannaornot | @gojoscumslut | @wolffmaiden | @fleoresies | @tkooooop | @cheriesdear | @shotenvinsoot

»»————-　★　————-««

[justwritedreams]

Irreplaceable | Kun

Pilot!Kun x Reader, soldier au

Word count: 1592 Genre: Fluff, action. Author: maari Warnings: mentions of military exercises and Kun being kind of angry bc that's hot Note: This is so short, I'm sorry 🥺 but it's my first story with him so I hope you like! Request: Could you please write something with Kun (WAYV/NCT) with him being a plane pilot? Idk, Top Gun Maverick vibes?

⪢ NCT Masterlist

Y/N adjusted her sunglasses better on her face while a smile played across her face, she saw her boyfriend looking for her on the beach and almost laughed when she saw him confused.

But she genuinely laughed when a much older woman approached him. Even from afar she could see the bad intentions of the woman who even caressed his arm.

Kun was already an extremely attractive man, with the air force uniform and the Ray Ban attracting everyone's eyes even more.

But she had no reason to be jealous, firstly because she knew he loved her, secondly because the scene was very funny.

She bit her lip to hold back a laughter as he politely walked away from the woman, saying something to her and looking around.

Y/N decided to help him, she came out from under the umbrella she was in and waved her hand to get her boyfriend's attention.

Not only did it work, but she also saw his relieved smile and without waiting he started walking towards her. As soon as he got close, Y/N threw herself into his lap, hugging his waist with her legs and his neck with her hands.

Kun smiled widely as he held her by her thighs.

“Are you laughing?” he asked in disbelief.

“Another fan approaching you?” She smiled evilly.

He shook his head.

“I love my job but going out in uniform has its downsides.”

It wasn't the first and probably wouldn't be the last time he was stopped by someone, whether to flirt or thank him for his service and effort.

"Oh really?" She looked him up and down. “I don’t see any disadvantages.”

She bit her bottom lip and Kun threw his head back, laughing.

“I'm going to start thinking you're only with me because of my uniform.” he said before touching their foreheads and placing a peck on her.

“That’s one of the reasons.” She caressed the back of his head, laughing.

Kun took the opportunity to go back under the umbrella and sat down on the sand with Y/N still in his lap, she then buried her head on his shoulder.

She wanted to make the most of what little time they had before he went back to base.

“Are you going to watch training today?” He asked, rubbing her back.

“I went last week.” she remembered. “Your commander is going to fight me, I’m not leaving the base.”

“I train better when you watch me.” He admitted, smirking.

She raised her head and looked at him, she wanted to bite his cheeks, which were turning pink, but she just squeezed them with her hands.

“If it’s for the good of the aeronautics then okay, I’ll go.” She moved closer to place a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“I will train with the new soldiers and we will have an international team to train with.” he began to speak, excitedly.

Y/N paid attention to what her boyfriend was saying, focused on the way he looked so happy as he shared it with her. She stroked his short hair.

She liked listening to him talk, the way his dimples appeared when he smiled made Y/N smile too.

They stayed on the beach for a while, before Y/N gave him a ride to the base. When they arrived hand in hand while Kun carried the suitcase in the other hand, they greeted the soldiers who passed by them and Kun turned to kiss her lips softly when he saw the commander ahead.

“See you in a bit, sweetheart.” he smiled and kissed her once more.

“Fly, my indomitable wing.”

Kun laughed and she watched him walk over to the commander, where he saluted.

Y/N had a silly smile on her lips and saw when the commander started walking towards her.

“Y/N, it’s good to see you again.” he greeted her and she quickly bowed.

“I say the same, Commander.”

“Come to watch the training again?”

“If I can, of course.”

He indicated for her to start walking and as soon as she did, he started walking beside her.

“You’re not supposed to.” She looked at him, scared. “But Kun trains much better when you’re at base, so I’ll allow it.”

She nodded and smiled restrainedly, following the commander to the communications room where they would have access to the aircraft's radios and built-in cameras.

Y/N was used to it, she already knew that aircraft 3 was his and focused on the camera, watching him put on his helmet. She couldn't contain her happiness at seeing him do what he loved so much.

She was anxious about training and missions, but she always believed him when he promised that he would return in one piece and well.

Kun was a responsible and committed soldier, he had a leadership spirit that infected others.

And even the training he took seriously, he prepared himself very well for the exercises. Flying was his life.

Y/N followed his career so much that she knew the basics of the exercises, if anyone walked in there would mistake her for someone on the team.

It was routine training so there wasn't much new, the training, the instructions were always the same.

However, when a soldier from the international team made a risky move with the airship, Y/N saw Kun's expression change.

He wasn't just serious, he was angry and she knew very well why, any kind of accident or something like that would be his responsibility, after all he was the team leader. And the foreign team was probably not paying attention to their safety.

Y/N frowned when she saw her boyfriend's airship perform a dangerous stunt and glared at the commander.

He didn't seem at all calm about it.

“Was he supposed to do that?” she asked quietly, seeing the commander shake his head.

“It’s getting a little too risky.” he said.

She tried not to show her concern, she trusted her boyfriend but she knew how he felt when a soldier from abroad didn't follow what was agreed and he felt obliged to show why they were following protocol.

She couldn't say that she hadn't felt her heart stop in her mouth every time his airship spiraled in the air or when it got too close to the other ones, both his own team and the other.

She only felt a little calmer when the exercise was over and the airship began to turn around to land at the base.

Y/N left the room along with the commander and the rest of the team monitoring the exercise, a little further back as she heard the noise of the airship getting closer and closer, ready to return to the ground once again.

When this happened, she was already outside and saw the soldiers leaving one by one and recognized her boyfriend from afar, holding his helmet.

She stiffened and hurried forward when she saw Kun quickly walk over to another soldier, holding him by the collar of his uniform after dropping his helmet on the ground.

Y/N's eyes widened when she saw her boyfriend glowering with hatred while shaking his colleague.

“Listen, Simpson, if you do that again in my territory…” the other soldiers also approached to push the two away. “I swear I will shoot down your aircraft in the air.”

“Stop being nervous, Qian. It was part of the protocol.”

“Part of protocol to almost rip off the left wing of my airship?!” he questioned irritably and shook the soldier once again, who simply laughed ironically.

“That’s enough, you two!” The commander ordered and the two walked away. “Get out of my yard before I make you two load the fuel for all the aircraft.”

The two looked at each other irritated and left in opposite directions after saluting their superior.

Y/N observed the scene a little further back seriously and with her arms crossed, her boyfriend walked towards her while his face softened when he saw her there.

"My angel." he said as soon as he was close enough to stretch his arms out to her.

However, before she threw herself into his arms, Y/N threw a stinging slap at his arm which he dodged, complaining.

"Ouch! What was this?" he asked, confused.

“You scared me, you know?” she complained. “My leg went wobbly three times thinking you were going to fall with that thing from the sky!”

He laughed softly and approached her, hugging her around the waist.

“I knew what I was doing.”

She continued to stare at him, angry.

“I will never see your training again, it’s decided.”

"You sure?" He asked, raising his eyebrows and she narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t fall because I knew you were waiting for me.”

“Shhh.” she brought her cold hand to his mouth, shushing him. “Don’t even say that as a joke.”

He moved closer to place a kiss on the top of her head.

“I would never leave you!” he said and she suppressed her silly smile.

“You better!" She pouted. “You look too handsome in uniform and fighting with someone for me to lose.”

He pretended to be offended.

“Ah, so that’s all there is to it?”

She smiled mischievously and brought her hand to the back of his head.

“Of course not, you fool.” she caressed his skin, watching him close his eyes at the affection. “You are unbearable but you are irreplaceable.”

“I’ll show you what’s unbearable at home.”

[mae-gi-writes]

A TURN OF PRIORITIES . PART 1 | BANG CHAN

Synopsis: What happens when you and Bang Chan decide to fake a relationship for the sake of making your ex-boyfriend jealous? A turn of priorities, that's what.

Genre: fakedating au! Bestfriend geeky, dorky chan x popular f!reader, stereotypical, fluff, a bit of angst

PART ONE . PART TWO

----

It always amazes how quickly people seem to move on from love, or relationships, in general.

That’s the reason why you’ve been staring down a certain quarterback since the start of the soccer semi-finals in honor of the College cup being hosted around the country for all universities.

It’s seven on a Tuesday evening and rain is drizzling over the bleachers, onto the people, and getting into your hair. The hair that you’ve wasted thirty minutes straightening, only to have it frizz up with that sort of moisture. It’s almost impossible to tame it down. It’s got a life of its own.

As if that helps with the sudden overload of problems getting stacked up in a pile a mile high right before your eyes. Your ex-boyfriend, looking as gorgeous as ever and providing his constant lip service to his fans, now has his arms wrapped around one of the cheerleaders whom he’d claimed only weeks before as “just friends and nothing more.”

Ha. What a joke. You were the joke.

Tears burnt at the back of your eyes and you have to look away, blinking angrily into nothingness as your eyes struggle to glaze over with emotion. You can’t lose your cool. Not here. Not now. After all, it’s bad enough everyone on campus got to witness your break-up in a manner reminiscent of that of a pop-star’s, what with Lee Minho walking away from you as if he’d never had a care in his world and that he couldn’t care less how much of an asshole he seemed to be in that very moment he’d decided to dump your sorry ass.

“Got a place for me?”

Turning and quickly rubbing at your eyes with your coat sleeve, you catch sight of your best friend — as geeky as usual — struggling to hold two popcorn bags, a hotdog, and diet coke bottles, his glasses slightly askew and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Did you just wake up?” You can’t hide your horror at his choice of attire. A bedraggled shirt wrinkled in too many places to count, grey sweatpants and jogging shoes that seemed to have seen better days. He just grins bashfully in response, handing you the popcorn before he pushes through the throng of people to get to your seats.

“Sorry. I completely forgot the time,” he pushed his glasses up using his elbow. Setting down the coke as he takes his seat, he doesn’t hesitate to bite into his hot dog, moaning in bliss as he does so, “damn, hot dogs sold at soccer games are the best. There’s just no way you can beat that.”

“It’s just a hot dog.”

“Yeah," he looks at you, offended, "but it’s sold at a soccer game.”

“And?”

“And that automatically enhances its taste, no questions asked.”

You shake your head, though it’s impossible to hide the smile growing on your lips, “you’re an idiot, Bang Chan.”

"And you, my dear friend Y/N, should start living a little," Chan leans forward in his seat then, an overexcited pup as the whistle signals the start of the game, "what are the chances of us winning this time?"

You roll your eyes, "I don't know. I don't care."

"You don't care because your Ex is playing," he points out, "so you'd want him to lose, ideally."

"In all honesty? Yes."

He chuckles and takes another bite of his hot dog, "always the pessimist."

At your age, it's surprising that you and Bang Chan have stayed friends all throughout your middle and high school years. Friends come and go, drift off when your interests and priorities changw in life. Yet, somehow, Bang Chan had always seemed to be present and everlasting. He's the harbour which you float back to when you feel lost out at sea despite being complete polar opposites.

It's an understatement to say that your friends dislike Chan. They don't dislike him per say. They just don't understand him.

"What do you have to talk about with this guy, Y/N?" They would snigger amongst themselves whenever he'd drift away to get some more food, "he's weird."

"He still reads comic books."

"And looks up marine animals in his free time."

"What's wrong with marine animals?" You can't help but ask at the absurdity of their questions, "I like dogs. So what?"

"Yeah but you're not like, obsessed with them," one of your friend wrinkles her nose like she's smelling something disgusting, "and plus, he's so awkward. I can't stand the way he makea eye contact with me every time we spend more than five seconds together."

Maybe it is the fact that you've known Chan forever that silence with him doesn't bother you the slightest. It's been routine for the past few years after all, with him doing his own thing and you lost in your own world.

"Oh! Score!" Chan suddenly jumps up aa the board blinks like crazy and the crowd roars. The speakers boom out with the MC's voice:

"Aaaand it's a score for the Riverland Snakes! It's now one to zero folks and what a beautiful start to the first college league game!"

Cheerleaders deploy across the field like a pack of hyenas in bright clothing, screaming out each player's name between their kicks and summersaults.

Your gaze catches your ex-boyfriend's figure across the field and it's no surprise he's all smiles.

"I thought you said our first opponent was good," you lean in to whisper into Chan's ear.

"Well yeah but maybe they're having an off season or something," he shrugs, "who knows?"

Indeed. As the Riverland Snakes keep on scoring goal after goal with minimal, the more your heart drops in your chest like someone just punched you. It stings and the hatred, all the loathing, seems to pour out of you in waves.

You hate this.

You hate being here.

Another goal for the Riverland Snakes. Another score that gathers a loud cheer.

A goal for the Thundering Tigers.

2-1.

And then, the whistle. Signalling the end of the match.

You don't want to watch. But you do, eyes raking over Minho's figure as he runs to his teammates and gathers them up in a ceremonial hug while the rest of the crowd pulses forward like an army of ants. Thre excitement buzzes in the air, overlapped with joy pulsing through Riverland students and it's too much, too much that you turn to Chan to tell him you're leaving--

Only to see Minho wrapping his arms around a girl.

Not just another girl. A friend. Your friend.

Her dyed auburn curls are shining, her head thrown back in laughter as Minho easily picks her up and gives her a twirl.

Then they kiss. And you feel like your entire world falls apart.

————-

“You can’t hide forever.”

You bury your head even deeper into the covers, snuggling into your pillow in hopes that Chan’s voice disappears at some point. This is how you’ve spent the last four days, rolling around in bed and barely cooking yourself anything, showering only when you need to, going to the toilet only when you need to. For the rest of the time, your eyes are glued to the ceiling. Numb. Filled with thoughts about where this possibly went wrong. And why, why out of all people, had he decided that it had to be her?

“Y/N,” Chan sighs on the other side of the door. Screw it. You wish you hadn’t given him the spare keys to your apartment. Back then it had sounded like a good idea, Chan being responsible and all, “you can’t hide in there forever.”

You turn away from the door, groaning.

Maybe if you ignore him he’ll go away. That’s what you’ve been doing all this time after all. He hadn’t had the bravery to break these boundaries yet.

“Y/N, I’m warning you. I’ll open the door if you don’t answer.”

Ha. As if. You don’t believe a word he says. You huff a little to yourself.

“Alright then.”

And the door is flung open. Yelping in shock, you bound up from your bed to look at the doorway where Chan stands, his hands filled with grocery bags with an expression that doesn’t seem all too impressed. As if on instinct, your body curls in on itself and you tug the blanket up to your chin, shrieking, “I didn’t say you could come in!”

“Well you weren’t answering so I had to check if you were still alive in there,” he says without missing a beat. One would think that Chan’s the kind of guy to be completely comfortable in just waltzing into a girl’s room, but his ears are flushed red, as is his neck. And he avoids making eye contact with you. Instead, he focuses on rummaging through the bags like it’s his sole mission, “I bought you food, snacks, toiletries if you needed them. Wasn’t sure what you were missing since you’ve been ignoring me all this time—“

“I really can’t do this right now,” you flop down on your bed and turn away from him.

“Are you sure? I brought you a donut.”

You freeze in mid-roll. Donuts. That sounds nice. You’ve always had a thing for donuts. The glaze, the chocolate filling inside, the crispy softness of the dough…that’s enough to make your mouth water.

No. You’re not to fall for his stupid plan.

“I don’t want your stupid donut,” you mutter half-heartedly.

“Are you sure?” You feel the bed dipping underneath Chan’s weight as he sits on the edge. There’s an amused tilt to his voice, “I bought the one from Krispy Kreme, the double chocolate one with chocolate filling. It’s even got those little nuts on it and a caramel glaze—“

The blanket is jerked off as you swivel around to face him, “fine, fine! You win! Where is it?”

Chan barks out in laughter while he hands you the packet and you don’t hesitate to rip it from his grip, inhaling the sweetness of the donut. You take a huge bite out of it and a burst of chocolate and caramel flavor spread across your tongue in delight.

You moan, “this is so worth seeing your face.”

“I’m not sure I should take that as a compliment.”

“It’s not,” you swallow and take another bite. The nut crunches and mixes in with the amazing chocolate filling that oozes along your tastebuds. Chan, meanwhile, is gazing up at you with fondness in his eyes. He’s always looking at you like that, especially when you’re eating donuts. He says there’s something that is really satisfying about watching you enjoy your food. Maybe it’s because you’re never that keen on food unless it’s sweet and bad for your health.

“How are you?” He ventures after some time.

You snort to hide the sadness that suddenly comes seeping in, “how do you think I am?”

“Horrible, from what I’m seeing.”

“Exactly.”

“I just don’t understand,” something catches in your throat. Your eyes sting, burning, “I thought she was my friend. I thought he loved me. It just sucks.”

“Yeah,” Chan mumbles back, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” You try to laugh, though it sounds hollow, “you didn’t do anything. It’s not your fault.”

As much as you initially hate the fact that Chan has managed to infiltrate into your house without warning, you have to admit it feels nice to have his company around. He volunteers to cook you lunch and shoves you into the bathroom while he puts your laundry into the washing machine. You spend that time scrubbing down your body and giving your hair a nice wash until your scalp is red and your mirror has fogged up. Towelling your hair dry and putting on some fresh clothes does make you feel marginally better, and when you pad out into the kitchen your stomach rumbles as the smell of bacon and eggs waft through the air.

“Breakfast is ready,” Chan grins at you, “you look like you’ve just revived from the walking dead.”

“Thanks. And you should stop commenting on my appearance. You know girls are sensitive to this kind of shit?”

He whacks you with his oven mitten, “stop being so vulgar.”

The rest of the day is spent lounging in the living room and binge-watching the series of Stranger Things that for some reason, has Chan really addicted. You’re not quite certain why he loves it so much, but you endure through it anyway, knowing that the distraction is good to keep your mind off things that would make you cry and break stuff otherwise.

But at some point during the afternoon, you find yourself re-thinking about all the things that could’ve gone wrong. Is it something to do with the way you loved talking things out instantly instead of just brushing them aside? What had Minho found in her that he couldn’t find in you? And why…why did she decide to go behind your back? The betrayal hurts more than the actual break-up.

Chan encourages you to come back to school the next day and you reluctantly agree after some persuasion that you’ll grab some more donuts after your last lecture. That motivation doesn’t last very long. It’s hard just to put one foot in front of the other, and you’re barely out of the house. Every step hurts your pride, makes your heart shrink even smaller inside your chest, and you feel like you can’t breathe.

The world, however, seems to love conspiring against you. That comes into the form of the one who'd been kissing your ex just a few days ago.

"Y/N, can we talk?" Lee Minji slots an arm through yours as you walk to your computer science lecture.

You shrug her off like she's the plague, glaring at her, "what do you think you're doing?"

"What?" She laughs, "Y/N, it's not like I committed a crime or anything--"

"He's my boyfriend!" You burst out.

"He was your boyfriend."

For a minute, all you can do is stare each other down.

Anger bubbles through you, burning your insides.

"I can't believe you," you grovel out through gritted teeth, "you--I thought you were my friend."

"I am! It's just--things happen Y/N, I can't control who I fall in love with," guilt washes across Minji's festures as she reaches for your arm once more, "please, can we just talk it over?"

You want to. You really do want to hug her and cry it out, and then everything will be fine and normal again. But just the thought of her and Minho together has you wrenching out your arm in disgust.

"Get the fuck out of my face," you snarl out.

Then, before she can say anything else, you're whipping around and walking away as your heart collapses.

You barely make it to the end of the road before you lean over and break down crying.

-----

"Just do it," you hiss at Chan, aware of his fluttering hands at your waist, the hitch in his breath, the way he tries avoiding your eyes.

You're in the middle of the dance floor in the university gym, streamers of white and blue adorning the ceiling as couples sway along to the romantic music booming through speakers that have seen better days.

Never in your right mind would you have made it to this kind of ball. It's not your thing. But all of that had changed a few days ago when an idea had popped up.

"You want me to what?" Chan's mouth had opened in shock at your suggestion, which you'd merely ignored.

It had been on impulse to attend the celebratory dinner organized by the football team. But your pride couldn't let it go; that Minho and Minji would spend the entire evening cuddling without remorse?

My ass they will, is what you thought.

Which is why you dragged Chan along for the ride despite his initial reluctance, grumbling all the way into the parking lot. He'd kept on insisting how bad of an idea it was, which merely spurred on your intent even more. To find Minho and make him regret having walked away from you.

That is how you find yourself attached to Chan, pressing yourself against him as if your life depends on it when you notice Minho lingering by the doorway with his friends, his profile leaning towards the dance floor so that you're in his full peripheral view if he merely moves his gaze up.

"Just hold me," you hiss at him through gritted teeth, pushing yourself even closer if that's possible.

There's a slight hesitation before Chan's arms wrap around your frame. Your nose brushes against his nape, causing you to get a whiff of his boyish odour mixed with deodorant. It feels nice, not completely comfortable, but nice.

In the background, you hear the music switch to a softer groove, a slow orchestra accompanied by a deep tenor.

I've never been the type

I've never fed a line in my life

The music pulses, echoes through the crowd like a magic spell and for a minute, you allow your head to fall onto Chan's shoulder as your feet shuffle to the beat.

Let's be squares in a round world,

Let's be squares in a round world, baby

Let's be squares in a round world,

Let's be squares in a round world,

"Is he even looking?" Chan mumbles into your ear.

You spare them a glance but it's too dark to tell, "it's fine. Just make as if you're saying something very funny," and then, you throw your head back to laugh aloud, "HAHAHA! How funny Chan!"

"Shhh!" Chan shields your body, pivoting you around so that his body shields yours, "you are so embarrassing."

You don't have to see him to know he's blushing down to his toes, "I'm trying to stay in character."

"I'm never coming to help you ever again."

"Nobody cares Chan, it's fine."

The music ends and he's quick to drag you off with the exvuse that he's thirsty, and while he's away finding you drinks, your eyes impulsively find Minho's across the dance floor.

Something flashes in his eyes when he notices you, something unreadable, and then he looks away as if embarrassed.

Embarrassed...by what? By the fact that he's now shoving his tongue down your friend's throat? Or that he can't stand the thought of seeing you with another guy?

"Hey," a cup presses against your cheek. You turn your head to find Chan, grabbing the cup from him as he settles upon the bleachers beside you.

"Thanks," you say, "and not just for the juice."

"You owe me. Big time."

"I know."

"Do you think it worked?"

"What?" You raise a brow.

"Do you think you managed to rile him up?" Chan glances over in Minho's direction. The latter is flankes by Minji and two other guys engaged in conversation.

Something in your heart tightens at the way her hand is lingering along his forearm.

Pressing your lips, you allow your gaze to tear away before it causes any more damage, "I don't know," you confess softly, "I don't know whether it's hurting me more."

He makes a sound of acknowledgement. Your hesrt squeezes tightly in your chest, eyes stinging with sudden tears.

"I--I need to go," you murmur, already striding towards the exit as Chan scrambles after you, "wait, Y/N--"

You don't listen. You don't want to.

You can't.

It hurts too much.

---

"Congratulations!"

Those are the words flung in your face the moment you step into the dining hall. Minji stands, lunch bag in hand and a huge grin dancing along her lips as if your argument had never occurred in the first place.

You blink, knowing that you should still be mad at her. Then brush past her to find a free table.

She follows, not deterred by your coldness, "I didn't know Chan was your type. You guys seem so cute together though."

"What?" You turn in surprise, and her smile widens, "I knew it! It's true! You are going out with Chan!"

A bit perplexed by her train of thought, you scramble for a coherent response and blurt out without thinking, "yeah. Yeah I am," your voice is still cold, "why? You're going to steal him too?"

You feel like kicking yourself when her face falls and hurt replaces it.

"I'm sorry," you mutter, averting your gaze and sitting down at the table, "it's just--"

"I understand," she cuts you off, takes a seat right next to you. The kindness radiating from her is so overpowering you don't have the strength to push her away, "i'm sorry, Y/N. I never wanted it to be like this. Trust me, Minho feels the same."

"Yeah, sure."

A weird ache settles in your chest as you eat with Minji and talk of stuff that you don't really care about. She's being extra careful to please you and you can feel her guilt glimmering through every glance she sends your way. But though you want to be mean, you want her to suffer, you find that you don't have the heart to.

"Oh! I have chem next," she quickly packs up her bag and you inwardly let out a sigh of relief. God, you're glad this is over.

You watch as she slings her backpack over her shoulder, sends you another shy smile and says, "see you after? Maybe?"

"Uhm..."

"How about coffee? From Paul's?"

The look on her face deflates the anger in you. You find you cannot say no, "I'm--"

"Please, Y/N."

Biting your lip, you mumble your agreement.

The smile she sends your way is dazzling. Almost too much.

Sometimes, you wonder whether you're just too nice for your own good. Or whether you're just plain stupid.

In any case, things just get progressively worse throughout the day; you're stopped countless times either to be congratulated about your newfound relationship, or asked whether the rumours about you and Chan are true. You confirm their suspicions, though quite unsure how that newfound information should evolve. You decide to scurry towards Chan's flat the moment your last lecture ends.

"Ah you've heard?" He asks the moment you step into his mini foyer. He's just bathed, now drying off his wet strands using his towel, "the entire school is raving about it."

Checking your inbox and noticing the spam messages from your friends confirm his assumptions.

"Right, well," you settle at his table, munching from his already-open crisps packet as you cross your feet, "at least we know Minho's aware of it."

"Uhuh," Chan pulls out the lasagna from the oven, his dinner for the night. Yours too, now, "we need to talk."

"About?" You raise a brow.

"If we're going to fake date to make Minho jealous, we should have a plan."

"Okay," you drag the word out, "and what exactly are you implying?"

"We don't have to act like a couple unless he's around," Chan starts ticking things off his fingers, glasses sliding along the tip of his nose as he does so, "I'm not comfy with PDA so if we keep it minimal, that would be best--"

"You're such a wuss."

"Shut up," he snaps, "do you want to make him jealous or not?"

"Fine fine," you wave at him to continue and he serves you a portion. It's unconscious and natural, since you're always pigging out on his food, "anything else?"

"I particularly don't enjoy hand-holding. So if we could find an alternative--"

"You can't be serious," your laughter stops midway upon noticing that he's not laughing with you, "it's just hand-holding!"

"I don't like it. It makes me nervous."

"Alright," you roll your eyes, "keep going."

"No kisses. Arm around shoulders or neck is fine, but that's it. No pet names 'cause that's embarrassing, and please, please don't make me go to this horrid campus parties that your friends are obsesses with."

"Jeez," you let out a whoosh of air, "no wonder people don't want to hang out with you. Are you just as weird with them?"

"I call them boundaries. They're healthy and they make me feel good."

"Sure, whatever babe."

He flushes, swats at you like you're an annoying insect, "I said no pet names!"

"Aw bunny, look how cute you are being embarrassed and all."

Your laughter merely erupts tenfold the redder he becomes, mumbling to himself why he's even trying to help you out when you're doing nothing o help him back. It's clear though, that he's got a soft spot for you. Chan always has, especially when you need him.

You really hope that this fake-dating works out. The quicker the better. Just enough that it makes Minho realize his mistake.

"How long do you think it'll take for him to cave in?" Chan asks as if he's just read your mind.

"As long as it takes."

You really hope it's sooner rather than later.

-----

A/N: Part 2 will be up after this so don't forget to stay tuned and let me know if you wanna be added to the masterlist! Not sure how many parts there will be yet (maybe the 2nd part is the final hehe) but we'll see. Thank you so much as always, for reading my words and connecting with me, a part of myself xx

[alastorsfuckassbob]

With Her Song- 5

AlastorXFem!Reader part 5!

A/N: okay so this is egregiously long and could totally be two chapters (a grand total of 14436 words) but I think I've made yall wait LONG ENOUGH!!!!!!!! a l s o FUN FACT I LEARNED WHILE WRITING THIS, although turpentine is often used as a paint thinner modernly, in the olden days it was used to alleviate ailments such as soreness or pain. IT IS ALSO very very flammable!! It’s one of those old timey concoctions people would just kinda throw on whatever to fix an issue, but it often caused more pain than good. YAY for metaphors teaching me new little things. Shout out to hadestown for teaching me that silly little substance- pls I live under a fucking rock that’s probs painfully obvious. 

Plot: Y/n needs therapy but instead indulges in a few too many dinky drinks with friends-it goes painfully wrong and then painfully right and then with a dash of fan service we get some drunken closure!

Minors get the frick out..thank yew :)

⚠️WARNINGS⚠️

-A bit of ANGST

-Alcohol and drugs..duh

-Murder death and violence..the whole nine yards

-A LOTTT OF CURSING (are you surprised)

-we do kiss but its not fun but could be fun in the future

-overuse of thesaurus! (take a shot every time i say enraptured)

✨ WITHOUT FURTHER ADO ✨ (i did not proofread this LMAO)

“I don’t know how I ever managed to love someone stupid enough to waste their soul on nothing more cheap liquor and lust rolled cigarettes.” 

The words echoed through your mind. Each syllable reverberating into the depths of your soul, sowing the seeds of your own corruption. Their tone twists deeper, sharpened and volatile. The desolate look of his eyes was a time drenched rusted knife plunging deep into your skin, it radiated with a sincerity you weren’t ready to meet. 

The memory was soaked in turpitude turpentine, match struck and ablaze with frantic fire. No matter how many times you attempted to cleanse your thoughts of the memory, the words would bubble up from the ashes and form again. It was a festering wound that wouldn’t close. The defiled crimson that poured from your wounded heart manifested as chapfallen tears and somber sniffles.

You reach into your satin lined purse searching for any form of distraction. A box of cigarettes finds space in your grasp, the lighter following soon after. Your shaking hands remove the thin stick from its box, you click the lighter to no avail. It sparks in unspoken flames,  devoid of fuel, unable to battle the recollection displayed; it creeps in deeper both vivid and haunting. In a swift movement the objects fly across the room fleeting from your frustration. Your fingers fumble through the crowded labyrinth of the bags interior in search of your phone.  Your grasp gets tangled on the crumpled receipts of your latest purchases and various tubes of lip gloss before it meets the exterior of the device. 

The urgency of each swipe heightens and you frantically scroll through the contact list. Each name surfaced on the digital roster stirs a sense of unease within you. The majority of the contacts in your collection were nothing more than business associates. In your panicked swipes you come across a small picture of Angel followed by the name “Hot spider from work”. He had chosen the name himself upon entering his number into your phone, you hadn’t bothered to change it.  You dial the number before you can convince yourself otherwise. Your eyes release a rivulet of tears dotting the surface of the screen as you await an answer. Its insistent ring pulses into your hand, mimicking the anticipation of your heartbeat. The longer it hangs in the air the more your hope for connection begins to fade. 

With a soft click angel’s voice carries warmth and familiarity into your ears.

“Hey doll, I’m going out with Cherri tonight, I can’t talk long you need somethin?” He casually chimed accompanied by his typical charm. 

You attempted to speak but the words caught against the burning in your throat. A nearly silent sob wracked against his ears, muffled by the crinkling timbre of the phone line. 

“Oh shit..y/n are you okay?" His voice adopts a concerned cadence, the essence of compassion underscoring the inquiry. You hold back a sniffle as he continues to speak. ”Did something happen?” He pondered your apparent distress, his thoughts racing to find any plausible explanation. His mind shifted to your shared situation, casting an anxious shadow onto his usually brightened facade. 

 “Did.. Val do something?” A mixture of concern and fear manifested within his hesitant tone. 

“No its okay..I just wanted to talk for a bit. I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy” Each carefully chosen word placed a mask upon the turmoil and disorder you felt underneath. He listened through each layer of brightly shined forgery, not buying into its incandescent veneer. Angel was not the “purest” soul in hell by any means, but his heart was imbued with the care he held for his friends. Even if the words you spoke supported a sense of stability, there was no way he would take that chance. 

“Are you still at the club? I’ll be right over. I just need to let Cherri kno-”

“No, no- I don’t want to ruin your plans” You cut him off before the words left his mouth. Despite his borderline celebrity status, Angel wasn’t granted many friendships. With everything Valentino demanded, he didn’t have a lot of extra time to maintain the ones he did have. Whatever unrest Alastor had pervaded you with would have to wait; it wasn’t fair to ruin his downtime.

“I can get drunk off my ass another night from the sound of it you don’t need to be alone right now.” He spoke ignoring your words.Your friendship was the last semblance of normalcy in his hellish life. He would never outwardly admit how much, but he loved you. He would give up a hundred nights of drinking if it meant he could fix whatever had troubled you.

“Can I come with you?”  You asked hesitantly. The fear of isolation haunted you too much to completely drop the issue, perhaps you could just tag along. That way you can avoid your current predicament, and he would still be granted a night of well deserved fun.

“Yeah obviously.” He mocked “Is that even a real question.” A wave of sarcasm crashed against his words, a laugh erupting along with it. 

He took a moment to catch his breath, eventually his satirical outlook shifted into a short apprehensive silence. “Are you sure you’re up for it toots?” He posed, genuine worry at its core.

“Yeah I think it’ll be fun to get my mind off things..its just been a rough day” you say nonchalantly, as if you hadn’t just shattered the majority of your dressing room in your fight with Alastor.

“Kay I’ll let Cherri know we found a third”  You could practically picture the jokingly seductive smirk smearing across his expression through the haze of the phone. 

“Angel-“ You playfully rolled your eyes. You adored his flirtatious sense of humor more than you were willing to admit. Occasionally, the comments could become a tad repetitive, but for the larger majority of time, they were hilarious.

“You know you love me babes, I’m glad you’re coming with us. It took you long enough-you’ve been denying my invitations for months. We’ll pick you up in a half hour okay?” He prattled out, his tone teeming with an enthusiastic thrill.

“Yeah it should be fun..I’ve gotta get changed, see you when you get here” You laugh out, amused by his reactions. You haphazardly click the device off and toss it on top of your bag. You rush over to the disorganized hodgepodge of clothing hung on the rack within your dressing room. You tear through countless revealing outfits in search of something well suited for a night on the town.

 The numerous options you had tried on and promptly threw off piled up behind you. Nothing felt right, if the color was correct, you didn’t like the way it fit you, if the fit was accurate, the color was an atrocity. You were beginning to contemplate not going at all, if you weren’t going to look good there was no sense in going. You anxiously inch closer to the racks end, denying each ensemble until you reach the final matching set, a short ivory corseted top and its matching mini skirt. It wasn’t ideal, but still held a bit more merit than the previous options. The dress you had  been wearing pooled at your feet as you slid the new top over your head. As you stepped into the skirt,  your phone started to buzz again. You pick up the device and read the message.

“Don’t expect us to wait all night for you~ We’re here now babes get your ass out here so we can have a good time”

You hadn’t expected the time to pass so quickly. You briskly check your hair and makeup in your phones camera and the results aren’t appalling enough to justify being late. The skirt’s zipper flies to a hurried close as you grab your things and rush outside to meet Angel. 

Upon exiting the building, you are greeted with the well welcomed sight of the spider demon. He leans against the sleek black car. His eyes are glossed in disinterest, focused on the condition of his nails. As the front door clicks to a close behind you, he glances up in your direction. His bored demeanor fading to that of excitement. You send him a small sheepish wave as you walk towards him. 

“Hiya y/n~” Angel purred, wrapping all  his four arms around your frame. He lifted you into a bit of a spin as he hugged you. “Don’t you just look spectacular, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were trying to impress someone” He lets out a clearly fake gasp. His face shifts into an overly dramatic display of satirical shock. “Is it me? Because I think it just might be me” He pinches your cheeks playfully before ushering you towards the car.  As soon as you’re seated angel’s legs are stretched across you, and his arms rest behind his head against the window.

“Cheri! This is y/n.” Angel spoke enthusiastically, excited to have finally introduced his two favorite friends. You sent her a small hello and a little wave. However, Cheri remained rather quiet. In the few times Angel had mentioned her, she never seemed like the type to stop talking, just so long as she had something to say. It was off-putting to be the source of her silence. It didn’t seem like the two of you were going to be fast friends or even slow ones. Angels face fell as he shuffled awkwardly in his seat. The tension in the air suffocated you, straightening your spine as you drifted in its asphyxiating poison. His confident posture shifted into that of hesitation. The strong smile he usually wore faltered as it cracked into a thin straight line. You noticed the subtle reflection of his inner most thoughts in each anxious twist of his hands. Cheri rolled her eye, and fixated it towards the other window; clearly unbothered by his newfound expression.

“Right..uh..Who’s ready to get fucked up” He asked brightly attempting to fix the mood. Cheri sent him a glare in response, his efforts had fallen flat. You weren’t entirely sure what to say or how to defuse this situation, so you opted for silence as well. Disappointment sank into Angel’s frame. He drew his legs back and shrunk down into his own seat.  The rest of the car ride was devoid of conversation of any sort. The only sounds within the vehicle were the trashy pop songs the car’s radio bothered to spit out, and the hum of the passing cars. 

 To be entirely honest, you weren’t sure why Cheri didn’t seem to like you. You had never met her until this point or truly even spoken a word in her direction, and yet she seemed so bothered by your existence. Angel clearly liked her for some reason, maybe she was just defensive around new people. You could work with that. The car jerks to a heavy stop in front of the neon lined club roughly yanking you from your thoughts. The building in front of you was a bit smaller than Valentino’s own club and yet it held the all the same destructive tendencies.  As the three of you stepped out of the car, it sped off at an inhumane speed, leaving you with no course of escape.

The room was unusually warm. It seemed to pulsate with the thumping base reverberating from the numerous speakers that lined the bar. The dance floor oozed in the addictive scent of expensive perfumes and cheap liquors. The neon glow from the flashing lights above haloed each demon in a glistening sacrilegious sheen. For a moment, you are caught within its immersive daze. The electric buzz of the atmosphere in each tiny connection ties you within its euphoric chains. For a moment, you are nothing more than a spinning cog in the club’s eccentric machine. Twirling. Swaying. Hypnotic within its rhythm, your body reflects that of the environment as you lose yourself in its captivating dance. 

“Y/n babes- we haven’t had a round yet, we’re here to get drunk and dance- not just dance” Angel’s playful voice snaps you back into reality. He grabs your hand and leads you to a quieter table in the back where  Cheri had already ordered the first few rounds of shots. 

Before you can truly sit down in the booth, your fingers grip around the small glass meeting it with your lips, the sharp tingling liquid burning down your throat. Within minutes the first few rounds were complete, despite your slightly stumbling form, you insisted on another. Angel, in a similar boat, gladly agrees leaving you alone in the neon glow with Cheri. As he walks towards the bar you feel the intensity of her gaze pricking into the exposed skin of your shoulders. Her voice officially calls your attention as she pulls out a small bag of miscellaneous pills.

“How about we get things really started”  A sly smile spread across her face as she spoke, dangling the bag between her fingers teasingly. “It’s nothing too harmful just a mild..stimulant” She added as she took two small circular capsules from their flimsy plastic container. She placed one on top of the cocktail napkin in front of you and one on her tongue. 

“What does that mean, what is it exactly” You ask hesitantly. You weren’t opposed to the idea of doing something of this sort, but it was best to know what you were getting into. In all honesty, Alastor wasn’t worth the onset taking something too serious would cause. Even in Hell, actions tend to have consequences.

“Oh don’t tell me you’re too good for this shit” She huffed kicking her legs onto the table, knocking a stray shot glass to the side with a soft clink. Your eyes widen in surprise by her reaction.

“No I wasn’t saying that- I just want to understand what I’m getting into..thats all” You stammered out attempting to diffuse any tension your response may have accidentally caused. She rolled her eye picking up the small white circle on the napkin.

“Don’t worry about that- it’s just to loosen you up so you can have a good time”.  She laughed nudging your arm slightly. “Its not serious..It’ll just help you forget” She sent you a soft smile placing the pill in your hand. Her eyes held a fragment of sadness, she would never mention it, but she had her own issues too. In her own odd way, she was just trying to help, and for some reason you couldn’t explain, you trusted her. 

You swallowed the pill as she pulled out a small circular tube. She pressed its edge against her lips and sent a puff of fruit mingled smoke in your direction. She wordlessly places the device in your hand, and you do the same. Its hazy pink light glows against the corners of your face as it activates. It wasn’t entirely like you to do something like this, but it seemed to help you get along with Cheri. That would make Angel happy to see his friends get along…After all, it was just to help you have a good time..No harm can come from a good time if thats all it is. The speakers of the club somehow grow louder as they sputter out a new, faster tune.

“Fuck I love this song” Cheri practically yells standing up from her seat. Before you can object, her hand takes yours, and you are dragged into the middle of the dance floor. She spins slightly as she rolls her hips yelling out the mumbled words of the song’s melody. It wasn’t long before your limbs began to echo the beat of each rhythm in tandem with her movements. Your mind glowed in a different sort of euphoria, your limbs seemed to float, slowing gliding through the tempo of the resounding pulse of your heart beat. Each person in the room seemed to blend together in watercolor warmth and decadent dancing pleasure, painting the picture of pure energy. With each spin you felt the weight of each memory sizzle off of your skin and evaporate into the air. You glance at Cheri beside you as her body swings under the  influence of the pure “ecstasy” of the moment. 

“I thought you were just gonna be another one of angel’s depressing friends-but fuck do you know how to party” Cheri laughed throwing her hands above her head as she swayed to the beat of the music. (White girl wasted asf) 

“Where did I go wrong to make you think that” You laugh with her spinning her around. 

“It doesn’t really matter, you just had that vibe” Her eyes drift to the demon behind you “More relevantly, I think ears over there is picking up a different vibe”

“What do you mean” You ask as she subtly points to the cat demon across the bar. His white fluffy tail resembled freshly fallen snow. On first glance, he held a gentle exterior. Golden chains strung from his neck dipped between his low cut lacy top and suit jacket. As your eyes wandered upwards, his seemingly innocent appearance was betrayed by his piercing red eyes. They soaked into his skin like freshly spilled blood. He glanced back at you, noticing how deeply your eyes were trained on him. He smiled revealing his razor sharp teeth and the edge of his forked tongue. His eyes raked up your figure, stopping just below your lips. His tail twitched as his sharp claws flexed against the metal countertop of the bar. He slid across a few dollars to the bar tender in exchange for two shot glasses. 

“Y/n- are you blind- do you not see how he’s looking at you?” Cheri’s teasing voice stole you from your observations. It was getting a bit harder to focus. theatre music blared against your ears breaking your concentration at every available instance. 

“I don’t know” You mutter out, unsure of what to make of the situation. It wasn’t like the demon wasn’t horrendously ugly, with his tall pointed ears and softy fuzzy exterior one might even refer to him as cute. 

“Well I do! I basically live here- so he’s not going to reject you or anything, you should go for it” Cheri said nudging your arm playfully while shooting a sly wink to the object of the conversation.  

“I’m not really here for-“ She cut you off before the uncertainty in your mind could hold the physical space of your words. 

 “Why not he’s cute right?” She quipped twirling a piece of her hair. 

“I guess.. he’s alright, I just don’t know if I’m ready for that..I know it’s not important but- ” You stuttered out. The amount you had already drank and the pressure Cheri seemed to apply made it much harder to express how you truly felt. You had come out with them to forget what had happened and more importantly your feelings for Alastor, but now that that sentiment had phased into reality, nothing about it felt right. You wanted to drown your sorrows and slip into a blissful moment of peace, not fill the hole he left in your heart with the pursuit of another demon. 

“Y/n don’t drag down the night with whatever bullshit is going on in your head. Don’t prove me wrong, I was just beginning to like you. Go dance with him, it’ll keep your mind off whatever you’re stuck on” Through the rough tone of her voice, there was almost a hint of desperation. She sent you a soft smile and nudged you further in his direction. The world seemed to slow down as each passing face lingered in your peripheral vision, each step tapering into slow motion as you walked in his direction. You had hardly given him a hello, before he shoved another shot glass into your hands.  He spoke mostly of himself as he ordered yet another round. The world started to feel less and less real as he whispered utterances of “baby” and “darling”  denying you the autonomy of a true name. He was enraptured with the beauty of your form, he couldn’t care less to anything that lived below that exterior. His hands rested against the exposed skin of your back as you pulled him to the dance floor.

You spin around giggling wildly as his fingers grip tighter into your flesh pulling you closer. His hips grind against your own, as his tail thrashes with the beat. With each sway, the world around falls into disarray. You can hardly make out Cherri’s grin and less than subtle thumbs up as she begins dancing with another demon she had come across throughout the entirety of your conversation. She grabs their hand and leads them out the door. Your dance partner senses your attention falling elsewhere, he places his thumb against your chin tilting it back in his direction. For just a moment, his deep red eyes seem to encapsulate a glimmer of  Alastor’s own. The longer you gazed into his eyes the more apparent it was that their darling shade of crimson was their only similarity. Alastor had never looked at you in such desperate hunger. His eyes always held an aura of care. 

“What do you say we get out of here baby? You’re a fantastic dancer, but I’d like to chat with you more.”

He whispers into your ear as he places a hand behind your neck. The two of you are impossibly close, teetering on the edge of a kiss. His hands trail down your back and underneath the hem of your skirt. You take a step back but his grip grows tighter, keeping you within his grasp.  Angel, who had been viewing the scene from afar, practically bolted in your direction. 

"y/n- who the hell is this?” Angel steps between the two of you sending the man a glare. 

 “Give us some space” You whisper, your eyes locked with Angel's. He rolls his eyes in response, turning his focus to the man you had been dancing with. “Yeah.. give us some space” he adds in his direction, bitterness overtaking his normally sweetened tone. 

“That’s not what I meant.” You retaliated taking a step away from Angel. "I promise. Its fine." 

 “It’s what I meant though…I’m all for blowing off steam at the end of a long day but this is going too far”  He huffs grabbing your wrist and leading you off the dance floor and towards the front of the building.

“Oh like you’re one to talk. You’ve been throwing back shots since before we got here. We were just talking” You mutter, as he opens the door to the exterior of the club.   

“No you weren't and you know it- Also Y/n.. I hate to break it to you, but you are like maybe five feet tall” He laughs, placing his arm on your shoulder. 

“Angel-“ you cross your arms, shrugging him off.

“MAYBE” He places his finger against your lips, effectively shushing you. “MAYBE with a few inches tacked on the end...Your tolerance isn’t going to be as high as mine” He sends you a playful wink. 

“Bullshit- I’m just having a good time” you retort slapping his hand away. 

“No, you aren’t. Nothing about your body language or your face or fucking anything about you even hinted that you were enjoying that” he huffs flinging his arms out dramatically. “What’s really going on with you?” he asks pointedly, the tension in his body visible as the fur on his chest puffed out a little more. 

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t see why you care Cherri is doing the same things I am go bother her if your savior complex needs a new victim” you snap back at him. For a moment his face falls, his heart fragmented in the reflection of his eyes.  

“Babe- you’re wasted, you don't really mean that" he said with a small laugh in the attempt to mollify the situation on both sides. 

“everyone here is” you retort. You ignored the look in his eyes, tears pricking in your own as you turn back to the entrance of the bar. "Leave me the fuck alone Angel. We work together, you don't need to pretend to be my friend because you feel bad about yourself. I don't need pity especially not yours." you seethe placing your hand on the door in front of you. You knew you were being unreasonable, but whats said and done cannot be changed. Even if the rage you directed at him was not his to carry, fire does not care what it burns and bridges are not often rebuilt. Whats done is done, if Hell had taught you one thing, there was no way around that fact. 

“Can you just cut the shit and tell me what’s going on” He yells grabbing the sides of your shoulders. Your eyes grow wide shocked at his reaction. He lets out a sigh ”Look.. I'm sorry Y/n...I’m just worried about you.” his voice is barely audible. "I know I'm not the best friend in the world or even a good one, but you're all I've got. You don't get to tell me thats not worth anything so just cut it out and tell me whats wrong..this isn't like you." His grip on your shoulders softens and eventually falls as takes a step back.

“My ex-fiancee showed up at the club, its stupid I know its not important but that asshole knows how to get to me" you finally admit. 

“Oh realllyyy" His eyebrows raise suggestively. "Was it that cat sinner who used to work there- y/n i think you have a type," he laughs "but I always thought you two would be cute together” he smiles attempting to lighten the mood. 

His smirk drops as your face remains stagnant, clearly unamused. He sends you a more genuine smile, taking a seat on the curb patting the ground beside him.

 "It must be really bad if you've lost your taste for my impeccable sense of humor" he adds as you sat next to him indulging his invitation. 

“I knew him in life..he’s kind of the reason I ended up here.” you confess wiping the ghost of a tear from your face

“Oh.. y/n I’m sorry” Angel slings his arm around you offering a bit of comfort. 

“No-no don’t be I don’t want to ruin your fun with my sh-” 

“Y/n you aren’t ruining things,” He says resolutely, grabbing your shoulders with a playful shake "Just talk to me..if you want” His eyes house a desperation you were all too familiar with. Each shimmery pink spoke of his iris held tightly against your skin, begging for a fragment of honesty. 

“It’s fine really…He just.. didn’t have many nice things to say,” you mutter out, tearing away from his gaze and settling your own against the floor. 

“Shit, that’s rough.”  He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, a half-hearted smile tugging at his lips as he tried to mask his discomfort with humor. He was never great with words, but that would never stop him from being there for you.

“Tell me about it” you laughed attempting to distract from the unmistakable break in your voice.

“That’s definitely a drinking to forget kinda night..” He let out a short laugh in response, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of genuine sympathy before they darted away to the ground between the two of you. His brow furrowed as he searched for the right words to say.

“I didn’t mean to get so upset with you..You’re your own person and obviously, you can handle yourself-you just aren’t used to this scene and I didn’t want you to end up in situations you’ll regret tomorrow- like I used to do..” He sighed deeply, running a hand through the fluff of his hair.

“Angel,” You said softly, your hand reaching out to gently touch his arm. 

“You’re better than I am y/n…I just didn’t want anything to happen to you..” His voice wavered rendering it nearly unrecognizable. His casually confident demeanor dropped, as he reflected on the details of his past. Your eyes met his in a moment of understanding, your smiles stretching within them, it was clear you cared for each other even if you had a hard time expressing it. 

“I’m really not. If anything you’re better than me, at least you know when to quit” You chuckle lightly. You take a deep breath unsure of how to accurately express much of anything. The whole night had been a rollercoaster packed with invisible turns and twists divulging into one fucked up experience. “I’m sorry Angel. I shouldn’t have said any of that to you..You’re my best friend it’s important to me that you know that”, your voice softens as you try to convey how much he truly meant to you.

“Don’t go all soft on me Toots, it’s just what friends do.” He says, his overtly confident tone returning as he playfully nudges your shoulder “What do you say we head back to the hotel and raid the bar? It doesn’t matter how shitfaced you get in the comforts of your own home.” The act he so obsessively put on would never drop for longer than a few moments, but it was always comforting to be within his company when it did. You could be yourself and who you had to be all at once as long as you did it together. 

“Self-destructive and Safe? Oh, count me in” You giggle, pulling a few small shot bottles you had smuggled out from your pockets. He takes one, clinking it against the one in your hand. 

After a slight walk, the two of you arrived at the steep entrance to the Hazbin Hotel. It had clearly seen better days, although not the eyesore it used to be, it still projected an aura of delapidation. Not that the two of you cared, it had been a long night and you weren’t done yet, this was just another place to keep the party going. Between stumbling fits of giggles you slumped against his side, taking his hand in yours he opened the large wooden doors into the building. 

“Welcome to The Hazbin Hotel a place where sinners don’t sin for a place to stay unless you ain’t being watched then anythings free game” Angel smirked lifting his arms out like some sort of circus showman. 

Alastor stood on the balcony of the hotel, his gaze fixed on the foyer below. The dim light from Hell’s perpetual sunset illuminated the scene, casting long shadows across the marble floors. He couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten back here after the fight. Each haunting memory of the argument was hazy, fractured like a broken radio transmission. One moment, he had been facing you, anger flashing between you both, and the next, he found himself back at the hotel.

“Must’ve been some form of magic,” he thought, though magic had never been something he entirely trusted, it was a necessity. Magic is synonymous with power, any and all magic was of use to him—he had long since mastered every trick of the trade—but you, you were something else entirely. How had you managed to fly under the radar for that long if your power was great enough to transport an overlord like himself against his will. 

His eyes narrowed slightly as his shadow slinked from the corner of the balcony, creeping along the edges of the stone like a living thing. It murmured softly, darkly.

“You could use this one, you know. A means to an end. You’ve already hurt her once…she could never love you again but you could still have her.." it hissed.

Alastor scoffed, shaking his head. “Do you never tire of your incessant suggestions, my dear shadow? She is more than that. Much more.”

"You could still use her to your advantage. She's weak, vulnerable, and she's already in your grasp..."

Alastor’s lip curled in irritation, a deep chuckle escaping him. “Do you ever shut up, you little wretch? She is no pawn.”

But the shadow’s words stuck with him, like a splinter in his brain. He could use you, he knew that. But something about it felt wrong, something he couldn’t quite explain.

He wasn’t naive. He could see the way the world operated—power was everything here. Yet as his eyes moved to the figure below, standing in the center of the lobby a pang of something softer tugged at his chest. It was you, severely intoxicated you, but still you. Always appearing when he least expected it. You had this uncanny way of showing up, out of nowhere, like some divine force ensuring he never quite lost sight of what he wanted.

And you were so... gorgeous. More so than anything he'd ever seen in this twisted hellhole.

The sight of you—draped in dim lighting, your features a perfect mix of both beauty and something darker, something uniquely you—left him breathless. His heart pulsed in his chest, almost painfully, as he watched you. He loved you, deeply, madly. The thought of it was strange, disorienting. For a being like him, who had long since abandoned all notions of softness, of attachment, it haunted him. Unfamiliar. But undeniable.

So there he stayed, out of sight and watching you with an intensity that could only be described as obsession. Your presence had shifted something in him, something he couldn’t quite control, and for once, that didn’t frighten him. It was almost... comforting.

The sound of footsteps echoed on the grand marble floors as you and Angel made your way toward the bar, Alastor watched you both intently from the balcony. The hotel loomed over you like a cathedral of excess, its luxurious interior drenched in shades of red velvet and deep crimson. The carpets were stained with the color of blood, and the chandeliers overhead seemed to catch the light in strange, angular ways, like broken glass. Despite the decor’s opulence, there was something unsettling about it all, a sense that everything here was just a little too perfect.

And then there were the windows. Stained glass windows lining the walls, depicting flowers—strange, foreign flowers whose forms never quite seemed to align with anything you knew. They were beautiful in their own right, yet so alien. They spoke of a beauty that was unattainable, untouchable, much like the lives you led here, in this place. They didn’t belong here... or maybe they did.

From your perspective, the hotel felt both too real and not real enough. It was alive in a way that made you uncomfortable, yet at the same time, it felt like you’d stepped into a delightful dream, one where you didn’t quite belong, but didn’t wish to leave.

Angel, sensing your quiet discomfort, nudged you with his elbow. “Relax, doll. It’s just another night in Hell. Let's grab a drink, yeah?”

His voice snapped you out of your trance, and you nodded, your gaze flicking back to the bar. Husk was sitting there, nursing a drink, his tired eyes flickering up at the two of you as you approached. He didn’t say anything but there was a knowing look in his eyes that made you wonder if he knew more about your situation than you did.

“Hey Husk, this is my dear friend Y/n who is in desperate need of a good drink” Angel practically yells grabbing a seat in front of the all too familiar bar of the Hazbin Hotel. 

“You’re just bringing everyone home these days” Husk mutters sarcastically glancing your way as he grabs three glasses from the shelf and a variety of bottles from the back of the bar. 

“Oh shut up, she’s a good one” Angel’s body slings over the bar as he speaks, he begins giggling at nothing or so it seems.  Husk’s typically bored eyes catch on the curve of Angel’s smile and the messy tousled hair that framed it.

 There is nothing more cruel in hell than the prospect of love.  His eyes filled with a pure haze of adoration, teeming in unyielding clouds of desperation. His smile grasping fervently at the raw precipice of vulnerability; entangled in the fear it could all slip away into the abyss of logic. These moments of observation became his own clandestine affair, a silent ache for an authenticity that Hell would never allow. He knew the way he felt for the spider demon was nothing short of love, yet their hearts were forbidden to intertwine openly. Angel had Valentino to deal with, and he had to deal with Alastor. It could never be anything more than lingering stares and passing glances, but oh how deeply he craved it. 

“How’d you wind up with this one? He’s not exactly a peach to be around.” Husk asks, tilting his head in your direction as he slides a glass to each of you.

“He’s the one good thing to come from working with Val” You boasted patting Angel’s head lightly. 

“Yeah yeah I’m great I know” Angel cuts in wrapping an arm around your shoulder “But how did a bombshell like you end up with a shitbag ex? I’m dying to know” Angel teases tousling your already messy hair. 

"We met when we were basically kids," you said after a long pause, your eyes never leaving the glass. "Teenagers, you know how it is." you shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "It sort of just went from there."

Angel's gaze sharpened, his smirk widening. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with a knowing look. "It’s always the ones you know the longest that turn out the shittiest."

You rolled your eyes, chuckling  dryly "Right? We worked together later on his stupid show," you added a bit  more forcefully, as if the words themselves could push the memories away.

Angel made a low noise, almost a scoff, and took a slow sip from his glass, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim. "Well, you should’ve known better than to mess with someone in show business."

you glanced up at him, your brow arched in amusement. "We're in show business."

"Exactly." Angel’s smirk was quick, knowing, and laced with the kind of dark humor only he could pull off. “go onnnn” he says with a slight shimmy.

You slump back against the bar, your glass swirling in your hand as the ice cubes clink together. The amber liquid inside your glass has begun to lose its chill, but you don't care. You've had enough to drink to not give a damn. You can feel the heat spreading from your chest, and for once, you don’t mind it. It’s been a while since you’ve felt anything other than numb, and tonight—well, tonight is different.

“Well, there really isn’t much else to say,” you mumble, staring into your glass. Your fingers circle the rim absently as you speak. “I’d loved him for years… I don’t know if it was love, but that’s how it felt. I guess you can’t really call it love if it doesn’t go well. You know how it goes. Eventually, people leave…” Your voice falters for a second, and you can feel the weight of the words like a stone in your gut. You take another drink, feeling the burn slide down your throat. “I’ve never been good at that part, so I waited. A lot of good that did.” You laugh bitterly, staring at the glass in your hand like it holds all the answers. “Eventually, I had to find someone else. Worst decision of my life, but I’d make it again every single time.”

You take a deep breath, then lean your head back against the bar. Your head spins slightly, the liquor mixing with your emotions, making it all blur together. You hear Angel shifting in his seat and you feel the heaviness of Husk's eyes on your form. The weight of the silence seems to press in around you.

“On the house,” Husk grumbles from behind the counter, his voice rough as always. “Take whatever else you want. Just don’t touch my whisky. It’s late as fuck, I’m going to bed”

“Bye,” Angel mutters, not even bothering to acknowledge Husk’s sarcasm. He flips his cigarette between his fingers, eyes glinting as he focuses on you instead.

Your attention shifts back to Angel, and you lean in, squinting your eyes like you’re trying to make sense of him. “So, you and the cat demon?” you ask, a teasing edge in your voice. “I think it’s you who might have a type.”

Angel huffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Shut up, Y/N.” But there's a softness in his words, like he’s not as defensive as he wants to be. You catch it, and it makes you press him further.

You tilt your head, genuinely curious now. “What’s going on with you two? I didn’t think you cared about anyone like that.”

Angel leans back on the bar, staring at his cigarette like it’s the most interesting thing in the room. He drags in a slow breath before answering, the weight of his words sitting heavily between you. “I don’t know, okay?” He mutters with a shrug. “I just think he’s cute. That’s all. It’s stupid, I know. But when I’m around him... I don’t feel like just an object. Like I’m not just some... disposable thing to be tossed around.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. You weren’t expecting that—that vulnerability in Angel, the crack in his usual cocky facade. You lean forward, trying not to let your surprise show too much. “You think that’s stupid?” you press, watching his eyes flicker as he looks away. “I don’t think it is. I think you deserve to be treated like you're more than that"

Angel doesn’t meet your gaze, instead fiddling with the edges of his empty glass. He lets out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know. I’m just... maybe I’m just hopeful. Maybe one day it’ll turn into something real. But who knows, right?” He lets the words trail off, his tone growing quieter, almost uncertain. “It’s dumb, I know.”

Before you can say anything more, Angel stands up and heads to the shelf, grabbing another bottle of whatever's closest to him. But as he moves, his elbow jostles the shelf, knocking something off the counter. You both watch in horror as Husk's prized bottle of whisky tumbles off the edge of the counter and crashes to the floor, the glass shattering into a dozen pieces.

“...He is going to be so pissed,” Angel says, his voice almost panicked as he stares at the mess. He turns to you, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “Do you want to hide out in my room for a bit?”

You don’t hesitate. The last thing you want is to deal with Husk’s wrath, especially not with the way the night is going. “Yes, of course,” you say, grabbing another bottle of liquor as you push yourself off the barstool. You head for the stairs, Angel following closely behind. The idea of getting away from this scene, just for a little while, feels like the right decision.

But as you reach the stairs, you realize something.

“Shit-I forgot my bag,” you murmur, turning back to Angel with a small shrug. “I’ll be right back. Don’t wait up.”

Angel nods distractedly, already heading up to his room, and you hurry back down the stairs. You push through the hallway, your footsteps echoing off the walls as you make your way to where you left your bag. Your mind is still spinning, and the alcohol isn’t helping, but you need to get it—need something familiar to hold onto.

That’s when it happens. You’re rushing, trying to get in and out quickly, and you don’t see the vase on the floor. Your foot catches it, and the next thing you know, the world explodes with a deafening crash.

The sound of breaking glass fills the hallway, and you freeze. “Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees as you scramble to pick up the pieces. You glance around, heart racing. The last thing you need right now is someone catching you in the act.

But then, from the shadows, you hear it—a soft, almost deliberate rustling. You tense as Alastor appears from the darkness, his sharp eyes gleaming as he watches you for a long moment.You freeze. Alastor. Of course, it’s him. In your hazy, frustrated state, confusion takes over. Your vision is still blurry, and you’re not sober enough to deal with this. Why is he here? What does he even want from you now?

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out more hoarse than you intended, but it’s sharp enough to make the air between you crackle.

“I live here, dearest,” Alastor responds smoothly, his usual theatrical charm present, but his eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place.

"I heard she sang a good song"

“Since when?” You stare at him, trying to make sense of his words. He wasn’t here before... Was he?

“Never mind that,” Alastor interrupts, a faint flicker of something darker crossing his features as he steps closer, his shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. “Just let me help you.”

You scoot back instinctively, pushing yourself up from the floor, the shards of the vase still scattered around your feet. 

You can't think straight—your emotions are too raw. Without thinking, you say, “I’m leaving.”

But before you can take a step, Alastor’s eyes catch something on your hands. His gaze sharpens. There’s a softness, an unexpected concern, as he moves toward you, his usually composed demeanor slipping for a second. He notices the faint scratches on your hands—small but still enough to catch his attention.Before you can react, he reaches out and softly grabs your arm, pulling you back a little to inspect the damage. The gentle touch is disorienting, but you don’t pull away.

“Please, mon cher,” Alastor says quietly, his voice softer than you’re used to hearing, but it carries the weight of sincerity. “Just let me help you... It’s the least I can do after all I’ve..caused you. Let me help you, and I’ll stay out of your life as long as you wish me to.”

"I heard she had a style"

Your brow furrows, suspicion creeping up again, but you don’t pull away from his grasp. “Is that supposed to be some sort of deal?” you ask, your voice sharp, your words coated in disbelief.

“Not at all,” Alastor responds, his tone almost too calm. “Just an agreement. It doesn’t need to fall into writing. Besides, in your current state, I doubt you could accurately hold a pen.” His lips quirk into a half-smile, the usual teasing glint returning to his eyes.

“Shut up.” The words are out before you can stop them, frustration boiling over.

Alastor’s smile falters slightly, but only for a moment. He releases your arm, though his eyes stay fixed on you.

 “There’s no need to be rude, dear. I am merely trying to help.” The words are gentle, but there’s a coolness underneath, like he’s waiting for you to take the first step.

You don’t want to engage. But still, you can’t help yourself. “And what good would that do? You’ve already told me all I need to hear.” Your voice is brittle now, the cracks in your tone betraying the hurt you’ve been carrying. 

Alastor’s expression shifts, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before he sighs, leaning back slightly. “You said some pretty nasty things too, dear, if I recall.” He huffs, a playful edge to his voice that’s trying to cover up the heaviness between you both.

“Nothing unwarranted,” you reply, a small bitterness lingering in your words.

There’s a brief silence as Alastor steps back, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveys the mess at your feet. He eyes the broken vase with something resembling disdain but then looks back at you. “Let’s call it a truce for now, Y/N,” he says with a smirk, his voice smooth and composed again. “It’s the least you can do after breaking such a valuable decorative asset on my property.”

"And so I came to see her, and listen for a while"

You blink, confused, your eyes narrowing as you glance back up at him. “You own this place?”

Alastor chuckles lightly, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling for a moment. “I think of myself as merely a benefactor. But yes, you could say that.” He looks back at you with a glint in his eyes, his smile returning, this time with a little more sincerity. “A truce for tonight, and we can go back to being at each other’s throats tomorrow morning. What do you say, dear?”

You’re about to protest, but the exhaustion finally catches up to you, and you sigh, slumping your shoulders in defeat. “Fine. Let’s just clean this up.”

You both move silently to gather the broken pieces, each of you moving in tandem, a strange sort of quiet cooperation filling the space. Every now and then, your hands brush against each other as you both reach for a shard, and though you try to ignore it, it doesn’t go unnoticed by either of you.

Alastor catches your eye as you shiver involuntarily, the chill of the lobby creeping under your skin. Without a word, he shrugs off his coat and gently drapes it around your shoulders. The soft fabric is warm against your skin, but it’s more than that—it’s a gesture of care that you didn’t expect.

“That should do it for the mess, dearest,” Alastor murmurs after a moment, his voice quieter now, as though he’s aware of the fragile truce between you. “Now to get you cleaned up.”

"And there she was this young girl

A stranger to my eyes"

You blink, feeling more disoriented than ever, before the world around you shifts. Without a second’s warning, Alastor teleports you both—your surroundings blurring, the air suddenly thick with the scent of damp earth and moss. When you open your eyes again, you’re no longer in the sterile lobby. Instead, you’re standing in a room that seems to stretch beyond its walls into a lush, almost dreamlike forest.

The scene around you is breathtaking—towering trees draped in moss, thick vines curling around branches like old friends. The atmosphere feels alive, warm, as if the land itself is breathing, and the soft whisper of the wind through the leaves is so familiar, it aches. It reminds you of home—Louisiana, the bayou. The air smells of wet earth, pine, and the faintest scent of honeysuckle. It’s not just a room; it feels like a part of you, like the land that cradled your soul in life.

You walk carefully toward one of the trees, reaching out and brushing your fingers against the moss that coats its trunk. The sensation is calming, and you feel a small lump form in your throat. “It’s just like home,” you mutter softly, your fingers tracing the edges of the moss, which decorates the trees like lace trim on an evening dress.

"Strumming my pain with her fingers"

Alastor steps up behind you, watching you with an unreadable expression. “Indeed it is... it helps me feel... real.” There’s a rare vulnerability in his voice that catches you off guard, his usual radio demon facade beginning to crack, just for a moment. He steps aside and moves toward the other side of the room, his demeanor shifting back to its usual composed self. “I’ll fetch you some water... and a painkiller.”

"Singing my life with her words"

The silence that follows is deep, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. The only sound is the soft rustle of the bayou outside. You’re not sure how long you stand there, but the stillness makes your thoughts feel sharper, like you can hear your own heartbeat in the quiet.

Finally, you break the silence. “Why wasn’t I good enough for you?” The words slip out before you can stop them, and the rawness in your voice is so vulnerable, so unguarded. “Why couldn’t you just say that? I understand why someone like you wouldn’t want me... Did you think I was too weak to talk to about it?”

"Killing me softly with her song"

Alastor freezes. His back is turned to you, but you can feel the shift in the air as his posture tightens. He says nothing for a long moment, and then, his voice breaks through, quieter than you’ve ever heard it before. “No one will ever be good enough for me not if they aren’t you.”

The words hang between you like a fragile thread, and you can hear the underlying sadness beneath his calm facade. But you need more. “Then why didn’t you stay?” you ask, the question a raw echo of everything that’s been haunting you.

Alastor’s shoulders tense as he turns slowly to face you, his eyes unreadable, though the weight of his silence speaks volumes. 

"Killing me softly with her song"

The night air is thick with the sounds of crickets, their steady chirping filling the silence between you and Alastor. The aftermath of the broken vase still lingers in the hallway, but it feels insignificant compared to the weight of the moment between you two. It’s one of those rare moments when words hang heavy, the space between them charged with something deeper.

Alastor stands a little apart from you, the soft glow from the distant lights casting long shadows across his figure. The red in his eyes has dimmed slightly, but his presence is still undeniably imposing. The air feels charged with the weight of everything unspoken, and it presses in around you like a thick fog. You can feel it closing in as he finally speaks.

"Telling my whole life with her words"

“I couldn’t, Y/N… I died.”

The words land like a heavy weight, and you freeze, the chill of them settling over your skin like ice. Your chest tightens, the breath you didn’t realize you were holding slipping out in a slow exhale. Your mind spins, and for a moment, it feels like time has stopped.

The crickets continue to chirp in the background, a constant reminder that the world is still moving, even though you’re stuck in this small, suspended moment of time.

“Oh... I... I didn’t know that.” Your voice is quieter than you intended, the confession stirring something raw in you that you weren’t prepared for. The realization that Alastor had died—that the man you once loved had been gone all this time—hits you harder than you care to admit.

“That’s entirely my fault.” Alastor’s voice is softer now, the edges of his usual control slipping. He seems almost… remorseful. “It was a bit of a hunting accident, as you know I’ve been involved with... some unsavory things.” His words trail off, like he’s trying to give you space to process the details. But you don’t need them. You’re already piecing it together—the life he must have led, the dangers of his world. “Quite frankly, I made a mistake. But there was not a second of this afterlife that I did not long just to see you again.”

He steps closer, and the shift in his presence is enough to make you look up, meeting his gaze. There’s something in his eyes—vulnerable, open, raw. It’s a side of him you haven’t seen in what feels like a lifetime.

“I am a vile and selfish man, Y/N,” Alastor continues, his voice low, tinged with regret. “Being here has only exacerbated that. But you... you make me different. I don’t know how else to describe it.” His shoulders sag slightly as if the weight of his own confession is a burden too heavy to carry alone. “I feel like I have purpose again... just knowing you’re here too.”

The words hang in the air between you both, the soft whisper of the bayou outside suddenly feeling miles away. For the first time in a long while, you feel the urge to speak, to let the thoughts and emotions that have been building in you come spilling out. It’s reckless, and yet, it feels necessary—like the truth you’ve buried under layers of hurt and bitterness is finally clawing its way to the surface.

You lean against the wall, your head spinning with the alcohol coursing through your veins, your tongue loosened by it, and the raw honesty that comes with it.

“I just figured you went and found something better,” you mumble, almost to yourself, though the words hang in the air for him to hear. Your voice is quieter now, quieter than you intended, and a small laugh escapes you—a bitter, hollow sound. “Out of the two of us, you were the one who had potential. I was just your assistant. I figured you went and found better.”

"Killing me softly with her song"

The words leave your mouth like a confession, as if it’s something you’ve held in for far too long. You can’t quite tell if you’re seeking closure or if the alcohol has just made everything too raw to keep inside. Either way, you can feel the vulnerability in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable.

Alastor’s posture stiffens, and for a long, painful moment, neither of you speaks. But you notice the shift in him. His broad shoulders sag just slightly, and for a brief moment, you can see the crack in his polished facade. Had he known that his death, his disappearance, would instill so much doubt in you—would leave you questioning everything between you both—he would have found a way back to you. There’s no other way to put it. If he could have, he would have crawled his way out from the depths of hell to find you.

His eyes soften, and you see the conflict in them. His words—those dark, twisted truths—make him feel like he's trapped in the aftermath of his own actions. The power he gained in this afterlife, his position in Hell—it had all made him feel secure, yes. But that security didn’t mean anything without you. It never had.

None of it mattered in the way it should have. Not if it meant leaving you to carry all that doubt, to wonder if you were never good enough to hold his attention. The weight of it presses in on him like a vice, but he’s too proud to show it completely. He is a demon—he doesn’t show weakness. But in this moment, there’s no mistaking it.

 “You were always and have always been so much more than that.” There’s an intensity in his words, a plea beneath the calm exterior.

You can feel the air between you both shift. The space between you shrinks with every passing second, each of you wrestling with the emotions that have lingered for too long. You want to say more, ask him more—but all you can do is stare at him, at the man who’s been gone from your life for so long. The man who came back from the dead, and yet, somehow, it feels like he’s never truly left.

You swallow hard, unsure if you’re ready to hear more—if you want to hear more. But you know that the truth, no matter how painful, is what you both need to face.

“Y/n.. for god's sake we were almost married, from the moment you tumbled into my life, you’ve flipped everything I thought I knew upside down in such a beautifully tragic way. Your voice even if it holds animosity, is pure music to my ears. It calls such a deep desperation within my heart to the surface. I wish I could capture the essence of your smile in stone, that way it would never fade or change. In your presence I feel alive in a way I never thought possible. I truly do love you, and I truly am so very sorry I said those things to you. It is the most important thing in this world to me that you know that none of it was true..I am so sorry for what you’ve been through. I wish there was something I could do or say to erase it all bu-“

You cut him off capturing his lips in a desperate kiss. For a moment, he leans into your touch. Reveling in the warmth of your form and the subtle caress of your thumb against his cheek. Your lips brush lightly against his his eyes closed tightly. As he begins to consciously process what was truly happening he pulls away pushing you further from him.

Your eyes swirl with tears as they fill with hurt, you could not comprehend why he would say such things and then reject your affections. He places his hand on top of yours, sending you a loving smile. 

“My dear, please do not misunderstand me..I want nothing more than to bask in your affection, but it isn’t right to do so currently. You aren’t within a solid frame of mind..If you still desire to do so once your mind returns I will welcome it wholeheartedly, you are all I want, just not like this.” His hand travels to your face, his thumb pushing the tear from your cheek.

“oh okay,” You whisper out. “I’m sorry” you muttered unable to pull your eyes away from his crimson ones.

“Please, don’t be, you haven’t done a thing wrong.” His apology stretched further than the situation required. Its melancholic timbre expressed decades of regret in a single instant. The words held you in the palm of their hand offering a comfort that you had not felt since his disappearance. 

“I’m going to try and find something different for you to wear alright?” He added before his expression could find the opportunity to fall. Reputation was his only strength and he would not dare disregard it, it was all he had to hold onto with you still at a distance.

“What you don’t like my outfit?” You say slightly rolling your eyes, gesturing to the lace lining the bottom of your skirt.

“No, on the contrary, I think you look lovely, I just assume it wouldn’t be the most comfortable to sleep in” He shrugs “Let’s get you cleaned up” He adds taking your hand and leading you up to a spare room.

With a snap of his fingers, a comfortable set of silky carnelian pajamas appears along with a silver-plated hairbrush and a warm cup of tea. He hands you the cup as he wordlessly runs the brush through your tangled hair. Naturally, it reminded you of the life you used to live together, he had taken the time to learn how to care for your hair and committed it to memory. It was an aspect of your nightly routine you had forgotten how deeply you missed. The porcelain teacup warms your hands as he hums a familiar tune. A few minutes passes and for once silence feels comfortable. Finally, he twists the newly detangled h/c strands of your hair into two neat braids, tying them with matching red ribbons. With another snap, he manifests a cloth and a bowl of water wiping the smudged sparked eyeshadow from your face and the red-stained gloss from your lips.

“I’ll leave these here for you to change into if you’d like dear.” He says setting pajamas into your arms before placing a key in your hand. “I’m just next door if you need anything, this will unlock it. Nothing is too large or small darling.” His smile radiates in authentic charm as he closes your hand around it and his own. “Sweet dreams Y/n” He whispers before closing the door hoping you don’t notice the soft blush painting his cheeks a lovely shade of pink. 

“Goodnight Alastor” You murmur as a smile of your own creeps onto your face. You quickly discard the (quite frankly stained) ensemble you had worn to the club in favor of the pajamas he had given you. The room feels a great deal larger without him here, however, exhaustion overpowers your newfound loneliness. You hold the key in your hands for a moment before placing it down on the bedside table and crawling into the downy sheets that had been calling your name since the moment you had seen them. 

Your body drifts within the realm of the subconscious, losing itself in each kaleidoscopic illusion of memory it pressed upon you. Your ex-husband, the dreams that had plagued you since his death, nothing more than thoughts and feelings to the conscious mind divulged into a twisted wasteland. Each flickering falsity fractured into the dissonant landscape. The shadows of your past contorted into grotesque faceless caricatures sketched with ghostly whispers and regretful choices. The figures fought against the edges of your sanity pushing you deeper within the disquieting chaos. You felt the blood soaking your dress corrode your skin until it shattered into the image of his body against the floor. His green eyes glint with the weight the irreversible act bore. His mouth parted to match the ill-fitting angle his head spun itself in. The halo of deep crimson spread from his center like the delicate spines of a cornet clashing against the fading carpet. 

The moment rewinds, twisting into another distorted tapestry before you can resist. 

“Without me, you’d be nothing. You owe me this”

The man you had regretfully married screamed into your ear, shrill and desperate. His words form tendrils around your wrist, dragging your hand to the kitchen knife clenched into your fist. His gasps polluted the air in whiskey-scented poison as you punctured his skin. His body falls in a cascade with your distorted thoughts, blurring the thin line between paranoia and relief. His eyes, once drenched in an ocean of fury now rest in a gossamer pool of milky white. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean it- I didn’t mean to-“ his body made contact with your floor before you could stutter out the end of your sentence. The hypnotic image swirls within a hypoxic cacophony, suffocating you in its remorse-ridden blaze.

Before the flames could truly engulf your form, your eyes shoot open meeting the deeply concerned ones of the radio demon. His ears lay flat against his head, gently wisped in vulnerability. Your trembling arms reach up and cling to his without another thought. He sits down beside you gently guiding you into his lap. 

“It’s alright dear, I promise you are safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. It was just a nightmare mon coeur.” He whispers into your hair as he holds you close. You sob helplessly into his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder. You weren’t used to the aspect of comfort after a nightmare, you clung to him as if he would suddenly dissipate if you didn’t hold the pieces together. 

“My dear..please, it was just a nightmare. You’re safe now I promise you” His tone is softly desperate, wanting nothing more than to take this away from you. Somehow, he manages to pull you closer into his arms with a tenderness you had yet to experience within your expansive time in Hell. 

"Would it be helpful to talk it through?" Alastor asks, his voice calm, gentle in a way you rarely hear from him. His eyes flicker with that strange, unsettling depth, as though he’s anticipating something, but he isn’t pushing. He’s merely offering.

You hesitate, unsure if you even want to go there. Your heart is still racing, the lingering echoes of your nightmare digging at the edges of your mind. It’s hard to focus, hard to make sense of everything swirling around in your head. You glance down at your hands, picking at the edges of your sleeve, avoiding his gaze.

"I don’t know…" You swallow hard, trying to calm the sudden tremor in your voice. "I’ve never really talked about them before." The words feel strange in your mouth, like you’re admitting something you’ve buried for years. "I don’t even know why it affects me so much. It just does."

There’s a softness in Alastor’s eyes as he steps closer, but still, he doesn’t try to touch you. It’s as if he’s giving you space, waiting for you to find the words.

"If you wish, I am here to listen." His voice is steady, like the gentle hum of a distant radio, but there’s a sincerity in it. Something rare, something you’ve never expected from him.

For a moment, you just sit in the quiet. The weight of the past is pressing down on you, and you almost feel like you’re suffocating. But there’s something in Alastor’s unspoken presence—something that draws you in. Maybe it’s the way he seems so patient, so understanding despite everything between you. You take a deep breath, your mind still racing.

"Alright..." Your voice comes out softer than you expect, barely a whisper. You wipe your hands on your pants nervously. "It’s nothing really... I don’t know why it affects me so much." You shake your head, frustration making your words come out faster. "It’s just a reminder of why I’m here. Why I ended up like this."

Alastor doesn’t interrupt, just watches you closely, his sharp eyes never leaving your face. His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to understand something deeper—something you haven’t said yet.

"How do you mean, dearest?" His tone is curious, but it’s not prying. It’s soft, inviting you to share without forcing the issue.

You exhale slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze on you like a heavy blanket. Your chest tightens, the memories threatening to rush in all at once, but you push through them. For some reason, talking to him feels... different. Almost like he understands, in a way no one else ever did.

"After you left…" You pause, trying to steady your voice, trying to get through it. "I got married." You don’t know why you say it like that—it sounds so... final. But it was, wasn’t it? A chapter of your life that should have ended long ago, but you never knew how to turn the page. "Things weren’t great." You shrug, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. It feels too absurd to even mention.

Alastor doesn’t react, just stands there, waiting for you to continue. He doesn’t need to say anything—he’s not pressing you, not making you feel like you have to hurry. He’s simply giving you the space to speak. And somehow, that’s the hardest part. It’s easier to keep quiet, to bury everything. But now, with him standing there, watching you with an almost disarming patience, you realize it’s time to face it.

"It was purely out of necessity." Your words come out clipped, almost too fast. It’s like you’re rushing through the confession, trying to distance yourself from the pain, but you can’t stop the words from tumbling out. "I didn’t love him. I’m not even sure if I’m capable of such a thing anymore."

The air in the room feels thicker now, charged with the weight of everything you’ve just said. You realize how heavy those words were, how long you’ve carried that silence. 

"That... that doesn’t sound like a life well-lived." His voice is quieter now, more thoughtful, saturated with regret. He speaks as though he’s reflecting on your words rather than speaking from his usual position of authority.

“He was cruel in ways description can’t really do justice to.  We had a child together, my daughter, Elise.. He never laid a hand on her..not usually. I would never allow it, I figure it’s better me than her...I’m the part of the reason why she existed in the first place, Its only fair I take that on.”  The nightmare still lingers like a fog in your mind, and the silence around you feels both suffocating and comforting at once. Your gaze drifts aimlessly across the room, but you can't quite focus—everything feels distant, almost dreamlike. A knot tightens in your chest, but you force a slow breath to steady yourself. You want to look at him, to see if there's any understanding in his eyes, but you can't bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you trace the edges of your nail with your finger, the small, repetitive motion grounding you, keeping you tethered to the moment.

“I don’t really know what happened, but it sort of changed one day.  She was nine or so.. He had come home drunk as he often did and things turned violent. She was only a child, naturally she couldn’t withstand as much as I could..And.. and He had killed her..and so I returned the favor.” You open your mouth to say something else, but the words get stuck. Instead, a broken, strangled sob escapes your lips—soft, almost imperceptible, but heavy with years of hurt. It's not the kind of cry you can control. It’s hollow, void of all the sharp edges of pain you'd grown used to; just a quiet, numbing release of everything you’ve kept locked inside. Your chest feels tight, your breath shallow, but the tears don’t come in a rush. It’s like your body can’t remember how to mourn properly. All you can do is sit there, head hanging low, shoulders trembling with that quiet, aching sob that feels as if it’s made of pure exhaustion. You want to scream, but you can’t. You can’t even look at him as the silence presses down on you, suffocating

Alastor's sharp gaze softens as he watches you. He’s used to control, used to being the one in command of every situation, but this—this is different. Your fragile, broken sobs cut through his practiced exterior, and the smallest flicker of something unrecognizable crosses his face.

His body is torn between wanting to comfort you and not knowing how to offer it without making everything worse. His voice, when it comes, is low and almost strained, as if he's fighting the instinct to raise it—something he’s done to keep his own emotions at bay.

"Y/N..." The name falls from his lips like a whisper, the sharp edges of his usual tone dulled, softened by something far more human. He reaches out, but hesitates, his fingers just shy of brushing your shoulder. He doesn't touch you, but his presence looms—close, suffocating in its weight. "I didn’t mean for it to be like this." His voice cracks slightly, a faint tremor you wouldn’t normally hear. "I’m… sorry. For what it’s worth."  He’s not used to offering comfort—it feels foreign to him—but the sight of you like this, unraveling in front of him, tugs at something deep inside him. 

“Please don’t be..I’m not. I regret so many things.. but I can’t force myself to truly regret those actions, and yet their memory haunts me.” You whisper as tears well in your eyes once more. The weight of your confession hung heavily above your head, threatening to crush what was left of your fragmented heart. You let out the yawn you had been holding in, revealing your tired state.

“Perhaps it’s best to try and get some rest” He softly laughs out, lifting you from his lap and placing you onto the bed. As he stands, his eyes can’t help but linger within your own. A few moments pass as you each have the first true chance to observe how vastly you both have changed. His hair still held the same wave it used to, flopping delicately around his face. The curled strands framed each expression that wandered onto his face in a deep softness unlike any you had encountered before. His smile, however, was nothing more than a diaphanous veil. His eyes drenched the rest of his face in a somber sodden mask. His eyes drifted to the ground as he turned to walk out the door. 

“Wait” Your voice is small as you grasp onto the cuff of his sleeve. “Please don’t go” His eyes bore into yours, his soul reflecting the love he held for you through the crimson-boarded windows of his eyes. His smile was soft and genuine, like those he used to give you so often in your time on earth. He ponders this proposition for a moment before he lets out a small breathy laugh.

“Of course mon coeur.. I  promise I will stay as long as you wish me to” He took your hand in his squeezing it lightly. 

“However, you may not remember this whole ordeal in the morning as well as you do now. Considering our previous argument, I think it’s best I maintain a small bit of distance to not worry your sobered self in the morning.” He whispers placing a soft kiss on the top of your head. He sat himself within the slightly tattered scarlet chair that was placed next to the bed. 

“M’kay” you murmured out sleepily. The exhaustion of the night had finally begun to enrapture your form as you tucked yourself under the covers. Before you could protest, your eyes began to droop into a more peaceful slumber. 

Alastor kept his promise, he remained perched in the armchair beside your bed throughout the night. His hand found itself placed against your back. He began to trace the lines of your history together into your skin, as his thoughts started to shift to the past. 

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1929: The bookstore next to Rosie’s shop.

(shush they’re alive at the same time on the grounds of I SAID SO also Rosie's Dialogue is pink in this segment!)

Alastor’s legs carried him to the bookstore faster than he could commit to telling them no. The shop was their secret meeting space, it offered the close comfort of a good book and the privacy Rosie’s store could never offer. Rosie was a slender woman who despite her youthful age and progressive spirit, was a ghost of his past. They had grown up together, she had watched the disillusioned spirit of his youth rot in tandem with her own. With each passing year, their golden facades had been tarnished, corroded by the cruel hands of experience. Their connection flickered with the dimming light of nostalgia and the glow of understanding.

 If he was conflicted, there was no reality in which he wouldn’t rush to her opinions and overwhelming honesty, and boy was he conflicted. The object of this confusion was none other than you. Something about your presence seemed to reverse the rot in his heart. It made him softer in ways he didn’t truly understand. He would cancel every meeting and appointment within his schedule if it meant he could spend another few moments with you. On some level, this was normal. He had always held a drastic level of care for you, but through the years it had begun to shift to something more. 

He twirled a small golden ring in his fingers each movement dancing within the fabric of his coat pocket. It was almost as if the ring had begun to solder itself to his skin, constantly conducting the electricity of the desire and love that coursed through his veins. He would tell himself the only reason he had bothered to purchase such a thing was a drunken mistake. He had drunk a bit too much on one of your dates years ago, and had purchased it on a whim…that was all, or at least that’s all it could be. It was unrealistic to think something along those lines would work out between you two. Yet, he still kept the damned thing in his pocket, maybe you would mention marriage in passing, and maybe that would be enough to lift the ring from his hand and place it onto your own. 

He knew thoughts like that were silly and unprecedented. Marriage could never be the result of his feelings, it would make them too real. He couldn’t seem to get rid of them, no matter how deeply he knew it would benefit you. If he did marry you, there was no reality in which you would not discover the horrors of his secret life. He had always been selfish on some level, but in this situation, it would never feel right. He could never hurt you.

 His conflict had driven him to Rosie’s doorstep and promptly next door to the bookstore. If anyone would know how to deal with this, it would be her. She knew you both evenly, naturally her perspective would hold some merit. He had brought you to one of his weekly lunches with Rosie a few years prior after you mentioned an interest in meeting his other friends. The two of you were practically attached at the hip from the moment he introduced you. If anyone would know how he should proceed, it would be Rosie. She was far more trustworthy than most gave her credit for, he wouldn’t have to worry that she would tell you his thoughts like he would if he had spoken with Mimsy or one of your friends.

The bookshop was quaint, filled with antique furnishings and the scent of aging paper and well-weathered leather. Dust dances lazily in the golden beams of the sunlit window behind him. Alastor sat restlessly in the reading nook anxiously fiddling with his hands as Rosie browsed the books in the store’s eclectic collection. She kept a subtle distance as she knew he would have an easier time with honesty if he did not have to meet it face to face. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he rattled on about his dilemma.

“She’s my Terpsichore Rosie…She could command me to drown myself with her song and it wouldn’t have mattered because I would have already done it anyway…Everything about her just entrances me. That’s dangerous…I’m dangerous. I can’t involve her with something that could bring her harm..especially if I would be its catalyst… I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself from her. Perhaps I need to remove myself from her company for the safety of-“ 

She cut him off turning abruptly, as she placed the book in her hands back on the shelf.

“Alastor- Darling you should do anything but. You can’t be so caught up in the past that you miss your future”. She sat next to him on the aging loveseat. Her eyes did not meet his, instead, they remained focused on the world behind them through the window.

“Rosie I don’t think you fully understand my “tendencies” He murmured, his voice tinged with uncertainty. He nervously twisted the ring in his pocket, a silent reminder of the question that begged to burn into reality. 

“I know all about the little stunts you pull darling. I just think you’re giving them too much power over you” She replied gently, shrugging her shoulders. “Y/n is a wonderful girl, she is the kindest and most understanding person I’ve ever met this side of the city. Don’t let the right person slip away because you are determined to make it the wrong time. If you don’t want to hurt her, then don’t hurt her. It’s that simple. Even if you are “dangerous” then make the choice not to be for her, she is worth it.” She said firmly, her words embalmed with conviction. She gingerly placed her hand onto his shoulder in silent support of his uncertainty. 

“I hadn’t thought about it that way” He mumbled, mulling over her words. As he thought on this, the tension in his body began to dissipate. He took a deep breath, finally able to release the weight he had packed so heavily onto his shoulders. 

“Of course, you hadn’t-“ She giggled, getting back up to fetch her book. She flipped through its pages as she spoke.“What better place to protect her from so-called “dangerous things” than from by her side? You might consider yourself to be dangerous, but there are people in this city that could do far worse to her.” Her words were nonchalant but their meaning resonated within his mind with great urgency. 

“I need to see her” Alastor declared. The surge of desperation in his voice was almost palpable. His heart pounded harsher than it ever had before at the intensity. He flew from his seat and rushed towards the door. 

Before he could leave, Rosie called his name dragging his attention back to his current location. “Oh one more thing, Alastor?” Rosie spoke plainly with a hint of malice tucked in her tonality. 

“Hm?” He hummed, confused as to what she could possibly want at a moment like this. 

“I swear to god if you harm a hair on that sweet girl’s head you’ll end up worse off than your victims” She smiled fiercely, and he returned it. He hurriedly closed the door behind him with a soft thud, the bell on top of it reverberating within the space. He had no intention of letting any harm come your way, especially not of his own volition. Tonight would be the night he finally allowed himself to fully care for you without his own self-determined repercussions. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You let out a soft hum in your sleep snuggling deeper within the sheets. He glanced back at your sleeping form, your softened breaths filling his ears as his heart tinged once more in his eternal regret. He brushed a strand of hair that had fallen into your face behind your ear, and for the first time in decades, his plastered-on smile truly felt real. In that moment he had allowed his soul to fully tie itself to your own.  Even if you would never accept his apologies, he was going to love you until his body betrayed its physical form and faded to dust, and if it were possible he would love you long after. He would revert hell to nothing more than ashes and rebuild it in your image even if you could not bear the sweetened saccharine of his words or the touch of his hand…He would suffer through any despicable action just as long as it granted you a fraction of happiness.

It didn’t matter if forgiveness was within the cards, even if it meant bargaining his soul, he would help you get your own back. 

so y e a h that happened! uh that was lowkey kinda garbo but yk what im back upon my bullshit so y u h its fine (the sad part on a personal level is that 95% percent of this was already done i just had to add like 5-10 action lines and a couple of descriptions here and there-)

[donnerpartyofone]

Are you into sci-fi at all?

Sort of! I'm not primarily a sci-fi person, but I'll indulge. I prefer fiction that has to do with the imagination, the unconscious, psychological pathologies, those kinds of abstractions; I don't usually like it when fantastical fiction involves too many rules or tries too hard to rationalize itself. But a few years ago I went on a tear of watching old (1940s-60s) sci-fi movies and I was having a blast; I won't be able to remember all the ones I watched, but some hits for me were THE GREEN SLIME, GOG, DAY OF THE TRIFFIDS, THE COLOSSUS OF NEW YORK, I feel like I shouldn't even have to mention FORBIDDEN PLANET...that kind of thing is very entertaining for me (and I would welcome recommendations). Usually the sci-fi I consume has some sort of horror element to it, like DEMON SEED or PLANET OF THE VAMPIRES or CUBE or something. For a few years I was in this cycle of watching old genre serials like Outer Limits while getting ready for work in the morning, and I think I watched every Star Trek thing up to Enterprise, which I hated. I hated that very non-Treky theme song and all of the characters and the look of the show and its gross sexuality and like, just everything about it. I tried a little bit of Discovery and I found it really cutesy and cloying, it has that Joss Whedon fan service flavor that I find extremely condescending and unpleasant; not even the promise of David Cronenberg or Tig Notaro could make me stick with it. It felt more Star Wars-y to me if that makes sense--like it's trying to be hipper and sexier and more youthful and action-oriented maybe, sorry if I'm not being very articulate but to me the point of Trek should be that it's REALLY nerdy, dorky even. It shouldn't resemble in any way the sham "nerd" quality that the MCU has. Probably nothing beats the original series but there's also a special place in my heart for DS9 just because it has absolutely no semblance of coolness at all; it's extremely dorky, the designs are hideous, it just does not try to satisfy any popular standards of appeal whatsoever. That takes some guts and I appreciate it.

...I don't really read any sci-fi if that's more what you meant, I'm not a very good reader in general because I'm always consumed with some research project that sequesters me in a very specific knowledge silo and then I miss out on a lot of actually-good/important books and also reading just for pleasure. But anyway TL-DR I don't indulge in a lot of sci-fi because I'm not into fiction that is overly concerned with making its own logic so airtight, but I certainly don't abstain either! Rec's are welcome.

[sehtoast]

Homelander x m!reader smut drabble from a much longer fic I'm still writing

!please note, Y/n is written as a pre-bottom surgery trans man. otherwise, the vast majority of Y/n's physical descriptors (eye color, hair color, etc) are kept to a minimum for the sake of reader inclusivity- and also lmao i basically stole spiderman for Y/n's supe identity, so there are some references to that

first time publishing anything, so i hope it's decent lol. that said, special thank you to @blindmagdalena for inspiring me to finally write a fic :D

“I can imagine.” Y/n was idly rubbing his thumb in circles on John’s chest.  The two of them were naked as the day they came into the world, cuddled up on Homelander’s leather couch, long after having had a bout of lazy afternoon sex.  Y/n insisted on covering the both of them with a blanket, even though John ran hot enough to act as a little space heater.

“This scene took so many takes.  The director was being fucking ridiculous,” John explained, motioning to the TV from where he was laid back on the couch.  Homelander insisted that Y/n watch one of his several movies with him, and still could hardly believe the web-head had never once watched one in its entirety.

It was rare for the two of them to ever spend time in John’s place.  It was so spacious, and every corner had a marble sculpture of some Greek or Roman figure. The overbearing wall that was nothing but a massive American Flag failed to entice a cozy atmosphere.  But the TV was huge, and John insisted his movies required a wide screen.

The film transitioned to an obvious fan service scene, featuring a ‘shirtless’ Homelander sporting a set of rippling muscles- wildly different than what was really under the suit.  Y/n felt John tense up as he immediately started to fast-forward through the depiction.

“I forgot about that…” he seethed, jaw set tight.

Homelander was deeply insecure about his body.  He’d spent a lifetime masquerading as a man with an Adonis-like figure, with a suit that painted the picture of rock solid pecs, bulging biceps and triceps, and washboard abs.  Somewhere along the line of losing his secret identity, he’d also lost sight of the fact that masquerading is all being a Vought Hero really is.  This was theater.  Hell, even Y/n’s super suit had some design tricks to make him look more cut than he really was.  John once expressed that he’d done everything he could to build muscle, to live up to the standard Vought had created for him, to be built like the god he was designed to be, but failed miserably.  His body simply wouldn’t bulk, and this failure cut him like a knife every time Vought ordered his muscle padding be made even more dense.

It broke Y/n’s heart when John expressed that he was the first lover to ever see him fully undressed and not react like a jackass.

----------

“Talking about hard things is how we get better at dealing with them.” Y/n quoted his childhood therapist, holding on gently to John’s hands.  It was only their second time making love, and they’d had to halt the process when John jerked away at Y/n’s attempt to remove the top of his suit.  “I won’t ever force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, okay?  But, please. Talk to me.”

John bit his lip, and if he were built like a normal human, it would have bled from the force.  He shook his head, blinking rapidly the way he does when it was time to confront something he didn’t know how to deal with.

“No one’s ever…” He trailed off, looking down at himself.  “My body isn’t… it’s not fucking good enough.”

Y/n remained quiet, only raising an eyebrow to encourage him to elaborate.

“I’m supposed to be- I should be shredded!  Strongest man in the world and I’m like a fucking twig.  How do you explain that?”  He was rambling.  “I can’t even get bigger, I’ve tried- fuck I’ve tried!  A-all these actors, they roll up to set looking better than me in every way and all I can do is run around in fake fucking rubber muscles to match them!”

Y/n watched him from the spot beside him on the bed, still holding tight to John’s hands, hoping it provided at least something steadying for him.

“I took it off one time, for Madelyn- years ago… I’ll never forget the way she fucking laughed at me.”  His words were bitter and angry, but the way he was only looking down at himself let Y/n know that all of those feelings were directed at himself.  He felt, truly, that he was the root of the problem.  “You’re the only one who’s ever-”

He was cut off by Y/n pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“I think you are so, so beautiful.”  Y/n murmured, looking directly into John’s eyes.  “And you don’t need to be built like a Greek god to be that way, I promise.  You’re perfect the way you are, and I will tell you every day if I have to.” 

----------

Y/n was distracted from the memory at the feeling of John pulling him in for a deep, desperate kiss.

“Tell me again,” John breathed out.  

Y/n was all too happy to oblige, and swung a leg over top of Homelander to straddle him.

“You’re gorgeous, John.  You’re ethereal in every way.  And you’re so strong, you’re so handsome, and those eyes of yours just…”  

John swallowed hard, his mouth slightly agape. 

“Let me show you…”

John’s pupils were already blown black, and he nodded in anticipation.  Y/n leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, kissing down to his neck, where he licked a stripe over John’s pulse only to blow a gust of cold air over the wet trail.  Homelander shivered and gulped.

“I love the way your adam’s apple moves when you swallow hard.  I love the way it lets me know how excited you are…”

Y/n rubbed John’s shoulders as he sucked hard at the base of his neck, despite knowing he couldn’t leave a mark.  He pulled away with a nip at the skin, clenching in pleasure at the little moan that left John’s mouth.

“-and these shoulders.  So firm…”  Y/n’s hands smoothed down the expanse of John’s chest, fingers moving to alternate rolling at his nipples and massaging the flesh of his pectorals.  “This strong chest- the way it heaves with every breath when you’re enjoying yourself…”  John whined and keened at the way Y/n played with him, grinding his hips up to seek any kind of friction he could find.  His face was flushed and his breaths were coming out in short, excited bursts, while his hands ran up and down Y/n’s thighs.

He about lost his fucking mind when Y/n’s tongue laved over one of his nipples, scraping his teeth gently over the tender bud.  

“You’re so gorgeous when you’re like this. All hot and needy.”

Y/n kept at it, playing with John’s chest until he was sure the all-powerful supe would be on the verge of over-stimulation.  He reached down, grabbing John’s left hand, and cradled it in his own.

“And these hands...  These strong, wonderful fingers. The way they always feel so good inside me- how worked up I get just seeing them,” Y/n slipped John’s thumb into his mouth, sucking up the length of it, curling his tongue around the digit to tease what, and who, was to come.

Homelander’s mouth gaped open at the way Y/n worked his tongue, and he was desperately excited to feel the same treatment around his shaft.

“Please…” John groaned out.  Y/n rocked his hips, dragging his wetness over John’s stiff cock in the process.

“Mmm, please what?”  Y/n inquired sultrily, finger still in his mouth.  “I’m not done with you yet.  Not until you know and feel just how fucking lovely you are.”  Every word of Y/n’s last sentence was accentuated with a roll of his hips.  “Roll over.  Put that ass in the air for me.”

Y/n was quick to get a handful of both of John’s cheeks as soon as he steadied himself on the couch, kneading the flesh in his hands, parting them to reveal his hole.

“I said,” Y/n blew a gust of air against John’s opening. “I was going to show you, and oh, I meant it.”  

John moaned out wantonly when he felt Y/n lick from his sack to his hole, and he buried his face into the seat of the couch to stifle his noises.  His eyes clenched shut at the feeling of Y/n’s tongue circling around his opening, and he couldn’t help but rock back toward the wet intrusion.  

Y/n focused his full attention into eating John out, thrusting his tongue in and out as the opening got looser only to trail back down and gently suck at his balls.  The sounds coming from him were driving Y/n absolutely fucking wild, and it took all of his self control to keep his hands focused specifically on John, on solely his pleasure.  This moment was all for him, and every ounce of focus Y/n had would go into it.

“I love the sight of your ass in that costume.  Every time your cape billows just enough for me to see it, I wonder how it would be to tongue fuck this hole of yours.”

Y/n caught the sight of John reaching to stroke at himself.

“Ah, ah, ah.  Hands behind your back, John.”

He immediately obeyed.  Y/n continued his wet torture of John’s hole, wondering to himself how he ended up being the lead in their sex life.  He always imagined it would be Homelander who pinned him down and fucked him raw- and sure, it did happen on occasion, but John was just so malleable when he was like this.  He was easy to command, and he fucking loved to be bossed around in bed, whether he’d admit it or not.

Y/n slipped the tip of his spit-soaked index finger inside, and John gasped out.

“Shh, it’s okay.  I’ll go slow.  Just let me know if you need me to stop.”  It was always good to let Homelander know he still had full control over what was done to him.  Y/n was more than happy to fulfill John’s needs, but always wanted him to know he retained his autonomy.  Always.

Y/n slowly fucked John with his finger, crooking it just slightly to rub against that sweet spot inside.  The sofa cushion was absorbing most of John’s noises, but Y/n coaxed an especially loud moan out of him the first time he’d brushed against his prostate.

“You know I love it when you're noisy. Be a little louder for me?”

And oh, did he do so.  Homelander turned his head to the side, eyes clenched shut and hands still locked behind his back as he rocked back onto Y/n’s finger to fuck himself harder, moaning with each stroke.

“A-ano-ther,” he gasped out, and Y/n gently added his middle finger to the mix.

It went on like that for a few minutes longer, Y/n kneading at John’s cheeks with his free hand while he fingered him with the other, until he’d decided John had done more than enough waiting.

“On your back for me, please.”  Y/n instructed, and John immediately moved, whining when Yn’s fingers left his body

“Mmm, there it is,” Y/n murmured, running a light finger’s touch up and down the length of John’s cock.  It was painfully hard, the head dark and soaked from the sheer amount of precum that had been worked out of him.  Y/n looked up into John’s eyes, taking note of the trail of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth, the desperate expression plastered on his face.  He was gorgeous.  

“You look like a fucking painting right now.” Y/n emphasized with a stroke of John’s cock, working a breathy moan from him.  It was time to really lay it on.  “Look at that cock, so big, so hard, just for me…  The biggest I’ve ever seen. The only one I ever want.” 

John’s eyes practically rolled back into his head with each word of praise.

“What are you?”  Y/n teased.

“I-I’m beautiful.”  John stuttered, his words slurring.

“Say it again.”  

“I’m beautiful!”  

And with that, Y/n leaned down to drag his tongue from the base to the tip, his idle hand reaching down once more to work his fingers into John’s hole.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” He gasped out, singing the intensity of his pleasure into the room while Y/n sucked at him slowly, moaning around his hardness each time it hit the back of his throat just to come back up and roll his tongue all around the tip.  Y/n began to thrust his fingers faster, taking special care to only just miss John’s prostate with each pass.  “Plea- I- Oh, fuck, I- Y/n!”

John began thrusting his hips, fucking Y/n’s mouth and simultaneously thrusting himself back onto the fingers in his ass.  Y/n buried them deep, rubbing against John’s sweet spot, relishing in the downright obscene noises coming from the world’s strongest man, who he’d reduced to a sloppy, needy mess.

He gagged around Homelander's length with each hard thrust, until the final push where John screamed out his orgasm, shooting it down Y/n’s throat while his body went stiff as a board in pleasure, hole pulsing around Y/n’s fingers.  A sudden beam of heat escaped his eyes, charring the ceiling before he could clench them shut in time.  “H-hah, I- Oh god, Y/n- fuck-”  He rambled out endlessly, rocking against the fingers inside him through each wave of his pleasure.  Y/n reached down with his free hand to massage at his sack, feeling the skin close to his perineum still pulsing from his earth shattering orgasm.

Once John had come down from his high, Y/n moved up to kiss him, probing his mouth with his tongue, all just to make him taste how delicious his release was.

“Mmm…” Homelander moaned out when Y/n moved back.

“Y’know," Y/n breathed out a little laugh. "I’d be happy to keep proving this to you, over, and over, and over again. If you'd like, of course.”

John looked up at him deviously, his movie long forgotten in the background.

“My turn.”

[sanvirtheobserver]

Taking Flight, Chapter 34: Roll Call

The Knight's roars are cut short as their head is cut clean from their shoulders. The other two Knights stare daggers as Pietro stands over their fallen broodkin with a straightsword in his hand. One Knight roars and charges in with their mace. Pietro is quick to dodge, the mace shattering the earth beneath it. The second Knight fires several fans of burning flechettes from their Splinter. Pietro expertly dodges and weaves through the oncoming barrage as he dashes right up to them.

Pietro: Amateur.

The Knight doesn't even have time to react before both their arms are sliced clean off. A flash of silver pierces through the Knight's head, the light fading from its eyes as it drops to the ground. The first Knight charges in, violently swinging their mace at Pietro. But try as they might, they can't seem to land a single solid hit on the Frenchman, whereas he is able to land thrust after thrust on the Knight with pinpoint accuracy. One single parry sends the mace flying out of the Knight's hand.

Pietro: Don't take it personally, amigo. You were just in my way.

In an instant, several silver flashes streak across the Knight's body. He dusts the bits of chitin off his suit as the final Knight falls to pieces. A moment of calm passes before he hears some footsteps coming from behind him. He swivels on his heel, sword at the ready.

Y. Sniper: GAH, friendlies! Friendlies!

Pietro carefully analyzes the YLW Sniper along with Tari, Belle, and Whisk. They had just come in after following the trail of dead Hive to his position.

Pietro: Identify yourself, bushman.

Y. Sniper: Rufus Mason. From Yard Logistics Workers. We were hired by Mr. Potman to clear out the infestation.

Pietro: I see.......

He slowly lowers his blade and turns his attention to the girls.

Pietro: And you three must be the adventurers Potman had mentioned.

Tari: Yes sir. My name is Tari, and these are my friends Belle and Whisk.

Pietro: Pietro Sterling, at your service.

Belle: Let me guess. You're doing pest control for Potman too?

Pietro: While I am assisting with the extermination wherever I can, I have my own reasons for coming here.

Whisk: So, you're here looking for treasure I presume?

Pietro: You could say that. The Mercenary life is all about the thrill of seeking that next big score. Isn't that right, Rufus?

Rufus: I mean, so long as it offers a nice challenge that gets you out of the house and across the world, then yeah. All with free healthcare and dental, mind you.

Pietro: Yes.......Anyways.......

He takes a moment as he analyzes Tari's robotic arm.

Pietro: ............What brings YOU here?

Elsewhere, Mario and Meggy are making g their way through the ever deepening depths of darkness.

Meggy: Holy Carp this place goes on forever. BOB? BOOPKINS? IF YOU CAN HERE US, SAY SOMETHING.

Mario: Mama Mia, this place is darker than Ben's sense of humor.

That's when they some odd sounds coming from a nearby tunnel. Peeking out, they see what remains of RED Team and YLW Team after their encounter on the bridge. The RED Pyro gives them a warm welcome via a warning shot from her flare carbine.

Mario: Hey, what was that for?!

R. Pyro: (You should know better than to sneak up on someone with a loaded gun.)

Mario: .............. Why is she speaking in Charlie Brown?

Meggy gives him a quick bop on the head.

Meggy: Sorry about that. He's...... not the brightest.

Seeing that the two aren't dangerous (if not a little rude), the RED Pyro sighs as she holsters her carbine. She turns over to her team, who are still working on trying to get across the ravine in their way. The Scouts get across easily enough with their double-jumps, while the RED Soldier tries Rocket Jumping. He does survive the initial blast and goes flying, but twists his ankle on the landing and falls screaming into the abyss. The Medics are....... awfully calm about this development.

R. Medic: You'd think he'd carry a parachute.

Y. Medic: Instead he settled for the para-BOOT.

The two medics share a laugh while the RED Sniper and YLW Demoman hatch a different kind of plan. The YLW Demoman lays a few sticky bombs and the RED Sniper lays his backshield on top of them at an angle. The plan is for those two to use the blast to launch them both over the ravine. Once they're both seated, the demo finishes his fifth bottle of scotch before pulling out a detonator.

R. Sniper: Watch and learn, boys! This is gonna be a real peace of cake!

Y. Demoman: Welcome, to the *BURP* train station. Let's kill a wizard.

With a push of a button, the payload detonates with enough force to send the two flying across the ravine......... before the Sniper crashes into a pillar and the Demoman ends up half buried in the ground. How either of them are still alive is honestly a miracle, but Mario seems unimpressed.

Mario: This is taking too long! Let's do this Mario style.

Mario rummages through his pockets before pulling out a Mega Mushroom and........ a random Koopa Troopa. Not the weirdest things he's pulled out of his pockets.

Koopa Troopa: WHERE AM I?! WHO ARE YOU?! WHERE IS MY FAMILY?!

His cries are silenced as Mario force feeds him the Mega Mushroom, causing the Koopa to grow to an immense size. As the growing continues, Mario tosses the Koopa over the ledge and his shell gets stuck between the two ledges. His immense shell has now become a bridge for everyone to cross.

Mario: Tadaaaaaaa!

R. Medic: Good work, camarade!

Y. Heavy: Little man is credit to team!

The other mercs cheer as they cross the "bridge." Meggy just looks on bemused while the RED Pyro is still processing what in the fresh hell she just saw.

R. Pyro: (Does he do shit like this on the regular.)

Meggy: Yeah. You get used to it. Name's Meggy, by the way.

They shake hands.

R. Pyro: (Garnet.)

Elsewhere, we see Boopkins and Soldine meet up with Bob and GRN Team doing some Excavation. The GRN Demowoman flicks a switch, detonating a plastic explosive that helps soften up the limestone mass in their way. The GRN Heavy gets to grinding out a path with his drill. Upon seeing Bob, Boopkins immediately rushes over and gives him a big hug.

Boopkins: Bob! Oh, I'm so glad to see you!

Bob: Boopkins? Where the hell have you been?

Boopkins: I tried to keep up, but you were too fast and I got lost.

Bob: Oh yeah........ Sorry about that. But hey! I got first pickings on the loot.

Boopkins: Oooooh, can I see?

Bob shows Boopkins the dufflebag full of miscellaneous trinkets while Soldine walks over to a handful of BLU mercs. The BLU Sniper keeps her head low as the BLU Medic tends to her. The BLU Soldier gives a salute to Soldine as he scans the area.

B. Soldier: Captain Edward Marston, reporting for duty sir.

Soldine: Where is the rest of your team?

Edward: Right here, sir.

He hands Soldine a chain lined with various trinkets. Among them were six class badges, all caked in blood.

Soldine: I see........ My condolences.

Edward: They fought hard and were damn good at it. Maybe even the best.

Soldine turns his attention to the GRN Medic.

Soldine: Doctor Tödliche Heilung, I presume.

The Medic turns to face the mechanized soldier. His face mask releases a hiss of steam as he adjusts his glasses.

Tödliche: That would be me.

Soldine turns his gaze to the bottle held in the doctor's clawed hand. A black liquid swirls within the glass, it's red sheen gleaming like eyes within the abyss.

Soldine: That substance........ what is it?

Tödliche: This, my friend, is Kuva. I harvested this sample from the "Denizens" I've encountered down here.

Soldine: Kuva......... I've heard the stories.

Tödliche: Yes. The Old Blood of the Orokin Empire. Some say it's the key to eternal life that cures all wounds. Others say it's a poison that corrupts the mind, body, and soul.

Soldine: What do you believe?

Even beneath his mask, you could see the slightest smirk.

Tödliche: I believe it's a matter of perspective.

Back with Tari's group, another Knight falls before Pietro's blade. He wipes the black ichor off his blade as the group turns their attention to a new discovery. Before them stood an ancient gate of ornate steel recessed into a frame of pallid marble and opalescent glass.

Rufus: Mother of Madcaps........

Tari: These have to be the ruins the SMGs located.

Pietro: SMGs?

Tari: More friends of ours.

Whisk: Wait a minute......... is THAT why your arm is glowing?

And glowing it was. Tari steps forward and places the hand on the door. The glow spread across the edges of the interlaced plates. Untold ages of dust fall as the plates begin to shift. Several openings form and merge until the gate has completely recessed into the arching frame. Before them laid a single bridge leading deeper into the earth, the path alight with a vivid azure hue. Tari turns to the others as they gather to look inside.

Tari: Just when you think you've hit the bottom........

[king-of-fuffies]

The Scavenger'z Hideout [sic] was Fuffy's favorite place on the entire Island.

Sure, okay, it was kind of cramped, dusty, dark, and- oh yeah, staffed with giant, talking rats, but really, that was the appeal! That wasn't something you got on any other server. There was a pleasant camaraderie in the air on the Island that was, in Fuffy's humble opinion, completely and ultimately superior to the businesslike, detached attitude held by like eighty percent of the Hypixel skyblock cluster. But then again, what did she know, coming from Mineplex, the so-called "backwater"? Only a LOT MORE than any of those elitist Skyblockers-

...but, regardless of what other people thought of her, Fuffy was always at home in the Hideout. Sure, she'd pop her head out into the world every few days to grab her daily Quests and Gems, pay her MCC+ subscription, get some crafting done at Splinter's, and play some games for disposable income... okay, so she spent a LOT more time outside of the Hideout than she did inside it, but the clacking of gears, the humid air of the forge... it would always be like a second home to her.

So it was a little bit of a shock when she heard the voice. "Pssst… you seem like a discerning eye," it called.

Fuffy blinked. "…hey, Stella, did you say something?"

The Ratsmith temporarily paused her forging, hammer held aloft. "Not sure what you're talking about, hon." She brought the hammer down to meet the near-perfect alloy sitting on the anvil. "I've been focusing on this for the past ten minutes. Maybe it was a pipe creaking?"

Fuffy cast an eye at the snaking copper pipes up by the ceiling before shaking her head. "Couldn't have been. Noxcrew paid to have them replaced last week, remember? Nibbles didn't shut up about it for days."

(Nibbles, the owner of Knick Knax, was extremely particular about "intrusion" by "The Government", because they didn't seem to think the goods they sold were legal- never mind the fact that the rats, despite being scavengers, were completely above-board. Silver was even one of the Island's official currencies.)

"Look, just get over here!" hissed the tinny voice again.

"…Stella, do you mind if I poke around in the back for a bit?" asked Fuffy. Stella clicked her tongue. "That should be fine, hon'. Just be careful, there's a lot of stuff back there, we don't want you gettin' buried."

"Alright, thanks, bye!" chirped Fuffy, scampering into the pile of junk as Stella returned to her work.

---

Once she was safely out of earshot, Fuffy got to work sifting through the junk. "...What do you want? Where are you?" she called tenatively, pushing a broken bicycle out of the way.

"...Shh, not so loud!" called the voice. "I'm right in front o' ya', dingus."

Fuffy studied the battered old refrigerator with skeptical eyes. "I don't..." Her eyes fell upon the thin crack between the rusty fridge and the side of Stella'z Swaps [sic]- one just big enough for any player to slip through.

"Here goes nothing," she thought, and squeezed through the gap.

As she emerged on the other side, the voice cheered. "Hehey! You found it!" Fuffy looked around, searching for the voice's owner. The dark little alleyway was lit by a single lantern, placed haphazardly on the floor next to a tattered push-cart containing a clump of behatted mannequin heads.

The rat beside it adjusted the sign on the cart (which loudly proclaimed that the business was called "HAROLD'z HATS" [sic]), and dusted off its waistcoat. "Thought you'd never make it!" the rat said. "Hat-Dealer Harold, atchur service! Now, what can I get ya?" He pulled out one of the mannequins, festooned with a cute little frog-themed bucket hat, and practically thrust it into Fuffy's face. "Ya fancy this one, perchance?"

"...wait, this is a hat shop?" asked Fuffy, who was beginning to feel just the slightest bit discombobulated. The rat- Harold- didn't seem to notice her question, instead turning away and rifling through his stock again. "Hmm, not a fan of that one, eh? Maybe you're a bit more... understated?" He pulled out a red-and-blue knitted cap and waved it in the air, whiskers twitching as he watched her reaction intently. "No, definitely not," he decided arbitrarily before Fuffy could get out a single word, and delved back into the pile.

It was around thirty seconds before Harold came back up for air, giggling to himself. "Oi!" he called, startling Fuffy, who looked up from her communicator (strangely, she didn't seem to be getting any signal here). "Got something that should strike your fancy." With a theatrical flourish, he stepped aside, revealing... the hat.

The first thing Fuffy noticed about it was the sheer energy. The hat sat there, not doing anything, but something was just... wrong about it. But, at the same time... it was just a baseball cap. Black, with purple detailing. It was even an Island-branded hat, it had the little crown on the front and everything!

Fuffy stared at it. She took a step closer, and reached out to touch it- and looked at Harold.

"Hey, this isn't an evil hat or something, righ-" "How much?" she asked. "Wait, no, I want to-" "For the hat, I mean."

Harold grinned. "That'll be ten thousand Silver."

"That's too much! We can't afford that-" "It's a deal," Fuffy said.

Her hand closed around the brim, and everything went black.

---

...Four hours later, Fuffy groaned.

She pushed herself off the wall, the cool air of the Island's current perpetual night settling against her skin. "...ugh, what happened?" she asked herself, looking down at-

The hat.

The hat in her hands.

She stared down at it. It didn't do anything. It wasn't even giving off freaky energy.

Then the holographic screen of her personal communicator popped up, interpreting her tense gaze as a request for the item's description:

Baseball Cap (Black Logo) [Uncommon] [Hat] You've unknowingly taken the first step toward becoming the Dark Champion.

[crystalnet]

Lana LP1-4 Reviews

Here I will be listening through the first 4 LPs of Lana Del Rey for the first time, as a late-in-life super fan (Post-NMR poser). Sorry for anything perceived as hate, I do love this woman. 

Born to Die (2012)- This is when the trip hop beats feel a bit canned and temporally displaced from their English, 90s origins in an awkward way, and the strings feel a little canned too— reaching for Zimmer-esque grandeur but falling short. She also uses voices on this that eventually disappear completely from her repertoire, sometimes evoking weird freak-folk stuff like CocoRosie but in a bad girl poet context. She does a Lolita or Little Orphan Annie thing on track 2 Off to the Races, and becomes a weepy tweety bird lush hiccuping her way through Blue Jeans, and I do not bemoan the loss of this slutty b-tier Bond girl schlock she would eventually shed and become more direct about critiquing. It was probably always critique of the male gaze all along, but the lines are blurrier in the beginning for sure when she isn’t willing to so eloquently describe the dimensions of her containment within a patriarchal system. 

I imagine how much this must have spoken to the “bad” yet vaguely creative-seeming girls I knew in high school. Lana offered them a clarion call to actualization. By the time this came out though, I was in college working at an Urban Outfitters, and I remember distinctly that the cover photo with the sheer collared blouse and the anal-y coiffed, voluminous Auburn-dyed hair. It just seemed like a in-store promo. “this must be the UO special edition” I thought to myself. 

But no, this is how Lana presented, and it happened to coincide with a stupid new idea of the “hipster” that flourished under Obama. Irony, and something about the 60s and 80s and mustache memes all coincided in a fresh new hell that Lana could slot into. But she wasn’t neat and tidy like, say, Vampire Weekend. She was a bad girl. But was it just a bad girl character on par with early Gaga with her vacant party girl shenanigans? Was it new? Ultimately Lizzie Grant will of course go on to reveal the artifice in full, proving the authenticity of the bit as artifice and then go on to remove the mask and invite us in forreal, not just into another one of her haunted mirror labyrinths of lust. 

But as I already knew, Lana is less interesting here when she is refusing to take off the mask. This character could definitely speak deeply to someone who sees themselves as actually living a life comparable to that of this Lana Del Rey creation, and the stunning vividity with which the bit is rendered can be engrossing on its own. If all I can hear is the bit, the character, the “mask”, though, well then it’s all artifice without the true artistry she would harness later on and I question what lies beneath without much of an answer in sight. Video Games might come the closest as obvious as it sounds. The critique of her own character and of the culture at large becomes a little more defined. 

The contours of MTV’s idea of reality and its failing in the broader context of the 20th century, so tacky and Ed Hardy-ized compared to this misremembered flapper era opulence she insists on reminding us of, it all feels like the ultimate Punk-ing. To dog us all like that while also presenting as the ultimate specimen of a post MTV world. What would you have us do Lana? Go back to the 20s, be rich and white? Go back to the “Gay 1890”s and live for crystalline jazz singers hanging from chandeliers as champagne showers over us, absolving us of our post-industrial, Walmart-ified sins and burning us in a holy conflagration. Nice try Lana, but you’re gonna need to try again next time. Game Over. 

7.2/10 (Little more about the music… the writing, the beats, everything is serviceable here, the production helps things never become sleepy, which her vocal stylings might have eventually done. She does not hold back in terms of describing every cubic inch of the world-view of this Lana character. This is not just instagram filter music. It is deeply realized and sometimes novel-esque, if only in terms of seeming like a 11th grader’s slightly last-minute book report on Gatsby. But the ultra textual-density is all already there all along, sheer lyrical depth on par only with conscious rappers. You will not normally find this many words on any other pop records in 2011, that I can almost guarantee. And you also will not find such an utterly and deeply realized aesthetic world, unlike anything any other starlet was even attempting at the time.)

Ultraviolence (2014)

She’s singing softly again, like she always does. 

She’s coming on to me, (the gay male listener). 

After work, she pulls me in close by my blue paisley-patterned tie and I’m overwhelmed by her Chanel. She’s pulled me back into her world again and I’m hers completely, again and again and again~

This is the one where Lana steps out of the filtered instagram images evoking an abstract past and into the technicolor world of reality, where the Pygmalion of Lizzie Grant’s mind walks full-figured and flesh-covered from out of the mall displays like Kim Catrall in Mannequin (1987). But instead of a bright new future for Lana, this newfound realness comes more in the form of the specificity of a monochromatic, noir landscape and a world utterly described. 

Right off the bat, atmosphere seems to have taken on new importance. On her first outing, Lana was proving she was a real girl who could walk and talk. But on UV, now she has a whole windswept seaside to herself to pal around— she isn’t just Off to the Races anymore, but instead insists that every grassy lawn that exists in America is part of her vivid world, which now includes the aesthetics of the films of Lynch and Tim Burton as touchstones. The way they too revel in revealing the decay hidden by suburban facade through film, is also intrinsic to Lana’s music. 

This tension too is a part of her world, alongside all the F. Scott Fitzgerald signifiers— sometimes she even seems to be singing to us from the snow globe of Citizen Kane. A starlet tripping the light fantastique in Gotham’s red light district, but now speaking more directly about matters of the soul than merely of the body. And to really Make it Real, she extends her references explicitly: 

They think I don't understand

The freedom land of the seventies

I get down to Beat poetry

And my jazz collection's rare

I can play most anything

I'm a Brooklyn baby

(on Shades of Cool). Well okay then Lana, maybe you are more than a mood board. Maybe you like Didion and Kerouac, that tracks. Does she actually like Nabokov or is Lolita entirely useful to her for surface-level reasons? In early interviews she speaks of Cobain and Cash and Dylan, the greats of every genre. And here she does seem more genre-minded… if the trip-hop on LP1 seemed almost out of place under her Jazz age affect, then by leaning into the noir and the gothic that someone like Portishead always channeled, she brings her work closer to something of undeniable substance. Whether she is a trust-fund kid yucking it up in Brooklyn and cultivating a personality made up of vapid cultural cherry-picking, or if she is in fact slyly making fun of that girl is besides the point. She’s real now and she’s here and she’s taking (some) questions. 

She tells us on Sad Girl that she’s “a sad girl”. Not just in the summertime then? Do we take her word for it, or is this simply clarification. But we should have known that a being trapped in nostalgia like her early incarnation so clearly is, that she could not possibly be happy constantly looking back like that (or else looking in the mirror). That’s what fast sex and Chiffon is for, always has been, to distract from always looking to find one’s future hidden somewhere in the past. 

Generally, we’re introduced to a laconic Lana here. Gone mostly are the peppy, borderline creepy Lolita-isms, and most of the higher BPMs. Now there is darkness and there is violence in its wake. But whether it’s the literal violence of the darkest of relationships or the violence of what ensues when a Fame Monster begins to consume and digest an individual, as it had thoroughly begun to do to Lana, well that all depends on perspective. 

Lana had had her awkward SNL performance by now. She had already moved past the discourse around ideas that she was merely an “industry plant”. Something about the times back then and how Adele was the only pop star we allowed to write in a singer-songwriter mode had us truly questioning if this unique artist could possibly be real. “Fucked My Way to the Top” says to stuff all of that, that it’s not that deep. And we’re inclined to believe her. 

Lou Reed is mentioned. The beats too. But so is Axel Rose. And the drugged out Lolita returns roughly one time, on Florida Kilos, towards the end. But she’s mostly resolved to stay in ballad mode. She leaves bread crumbs, but the destination isn’t the point. Lana’s artistry here by merely existing as it does seems to say over and over to stop the meaningless discourse. To just shut up. ‘Here is some art that I made, that i needed to make’, she seems to say. And if the mood board seems more varied and specific this time than just ‘The Great Gatsby,’ well I think we’re inclined to keep believing her. She could have truly pulled back and become pure caricature after LP1. Instead she leaned in, slowed it down, clarified herself, and spoke of an all consuming darkness. A decade later and she’s still finding light amidst all the death and the violence of a Cruel World. 

8.3/10

Honeymoon (2015)

Well, so I have a confession to make. A bit of a mask-off moment for myself after so much talk of character and artifice. It turns out, embarrassingly enough, that I simply have trouble getting into or distinguishing a lot of early Lana. I say that as a super-fan of the recent 4 LPs, but that may not qualify much. Those who go all the way back with Lana are the real ones. And now that I think of it, more of BTD may have stood out to me than LP2 and 3. Despite the sunny cover featuring our honey looking glamorous in a sun hat, this album mostly continues the thread of dark glamour and decayed opulence she began to focus on between her debut and this 3rd full length outing. 

A bit of background: As is the case with many recent bangwagoners, Norman Fucking Rockwell is the moment I went from being a sometimes curious spectator to full stan. Specifically, with the initial utterance on that record (Goddamn, man child/ you fucked me so good that I almost said I love you), Lana had kicked down a backdoor in my mind and ever since that day, she has been with me. Even in 2019, that last summer before COVID, when the greatest ruled both my mind and my piano alike, I remember thinking: Oh, I should go back to her older LPs, right? But even then I knew the answer. It simply might not be for me, that earlier stuff. 

And why? The answer either does not exist clearly or is an uncomfortable one. NFR bandwagoners like me should almost feel a need to explain clearly that we are not actually just stans of Jack Antonoff’s production. It might feel that way given the data... he starts working with on her on LP5 which is the first to make a serious ripple on tastemakers’ AotY lists after years of resistance. And then he has been a mainstay collaborator ever since. But that can’t be it. I refuse to give a man credit when the majority of the words and melodies are hers. So what is it? Well, that is something to speak of when I do get to NFR and the material that followed. 

For now, I will focus on Lana’s honeymoon phase, even if it is a honeymoon as tragic as her Ultraviolence days. Much of this glides by my ears, and unlike post-2018 material, neither the melodies nor the lyrics often truly grab me. Now to be clear, nothing is bad, nothing is offensive... it’s all often so lovely. And on-brand. But it’s more than beautifully on-brand, right?

Well if the first two LPs had me thinking so much of the character of Lana, well then Honeymoon is the record that has me thinking more about the listener. The listener that Lana imagines when writing, the one she is singing to. Both the imagined one and the literal actual one. She is a girl between the ages of 14 and 24 I believe. She may or may not have had dog-eared copies of Gatsby or Lolita on her dorm-room desk. A poster of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss on the wall. Does she have crystals? Thoughts about astrology? (yes). 

Does she have a troubled past and upbringing? I think she likely does. That this platonic listener of my dreams, whose spirits still haunt r/lana and r/lanita alike, that she truly receives from beyond through these records, of that I am sure. That there is healing for that girl inside of these songs, positive. 

I know that several times this girl has moved on from Lana only to return when she needed her most. After a big breakup, or a big meltdown or a really, really bad day at work. But Lana’s songs are also there in the good moments. Nothing here is so blatantly “sad” that it cannot also just mostly be “pretty,” beautiful and transcendent of being emotionally one-note. Fodder for a road trip to the Grand Canyon. Or a time in her life when everything is calm and she can’t believe that death and violence is behind her now. Lana has and will soundtrack all of that for her. New songs to paper over the walls of her own mind with every year or so.

And so now something like Honeymoon is alive for me again. Because I understand at this point, that this is a conversation. And if I am not always one end of this two-way, than I am lucky enough to hopefully (and not intrusively, unwantedly) take part. Maybe some things, for some people, should stay behind glass. It might not be for me per se, and that’s ok. 

7.0/10

Lust for Life (2017)

She looks the most like my mom on this cover photo. And this is the first time she’s so clearly gone for a 60s thing... specifically a 1967, Summer of Love thing, Haigh-Ashburry, San Francisco, She’s Leaving Home kind of thing. It’s all right there on the cover and in that smile, and the daisies in her hair, if not always the actual music. 

So then this is the far-flung future for Lana. If her music and image and her character was always so haunted by some kind of vague 20s-through-the-50s specter of the recently Old World, then now she’s inhabiting a time that some of our parent’s might actually remember. And to make her intentions clear, that vibrato’d out surf guitar bass on opening track ‘Love’ screams Nancy Sinatra. And the white lace chiffon 

[msommers]

T A B and Y for Maeve and any other OCs you like!!

thank youuuu!! xx i did some rolls and ended up with bestie ellana // valentine’s day alphabet

T : TRUE LOVE. does your muse believe in true love?

MAEVE — gestures to any of the numerous posts i’ve made about how maeve’s character is all about love, then add on her multiple soulmates plots. she believes in it with every bit of her heart, every bone in her body, every fiber of her being, insert every dramatic form of YES YES YES here.

ELLANA — i'd say so, yeah. she's a romantic at heart and would fancy the concept. unwavering devotion and fondness, absolute trust, unconditional love and acceptance—all things she herself feels in the right relationship, no matter how, uh. problematic that may get depending on the person.

A : AFFECTION. how does your muse show affection?

MAEVE — love personified over here. she's displaying affection in any and every way, her favorites being through physical touches and gifting. the most touching (ha) part about her affection is that you can notice she tailors it to each individual, taking the time to determine what they're comfortable with and desire and giving them precisely that. i've talked about this topic for her So Much that i'm gonna cut myself off here.

ELLANA — touch touch touch. she can't get enough of it. linking their arms together or wrapping one of her arms around a partner's waist as they walk, taking their hand to give it a kiss or squeeze, playing with or caring for their hair, massaging tense areas, the list goes on and on. it's natural to her, expressing love and affection through touch, and something that's honestly incredibly important to her in a relationship. in simple love language terms, her two follow-ups would be acts of service and words of affirmation.

B : BOUQUET. does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

MAEVE — ..... yes, a little bit. i say, trying to keep the tone chill when she has gardens at both of her estates (the toussaint one is significantly bigger) and frequently purchases flowers from merchants she happens by. her favorites are tulips!!! for their various meanings dependent on colors, and because she thinks they're pretty :D also a fan of classic roses, lavender, primrose and sunflowers.

ELLANA — yeah 🥰 coming from a dalish clan, there are practical uses that can come from flowers/herbs which i'm sure she's aware of and has used, but!!! i also am a fan of the idea that the dalish have traditions involving and symbolism assigned to different types of flowers, and ellana being the softie she is would adore them. it was soooo long ago but i once read somebody's headcanons for a few of these, and i can only remember that her favorite would be the crystal grace, which when gifted to somebody you're romantically interested in would be seen as a symbol of wanting to pursue/enter courtship with them. it's just Adorable

Y : YOURS. does your muse get protective easily?

MAEVE — the thing is that, yes, she can get protective. but!! her partners are always ridiculously strong individuals who can handle themselves and protect her in a fight without breaking a sweat, so her instinct to protect them doesn't pop up very often (outside of the apocalypse au where she does in fact go crazy on some sickos a few times lol maeve w a brick rights <3). but say their character is being attacked?? she can do something about that! and she will! socializing is where she thrives, words are a bard's deadliest weapon, etc etc. she'd be quick to defend her partner(s) then. don't judge a book by its cover or maeve will engage in some verbal sparring that'll make you wanna leave the room out of shame lmao

ELLANA — yes yes yes yes. protecting and providing are things that at some point changed from duties within the clan to plain instinct for her. such a large part of ellana is her desire to keep people (especially loved ones) safe, no matter what she must do to accomplish it. this is actually one of her flaws that i get so excited about, because ellana will sometimes go ballistic if somebody she cares for is harmed and that's totally not chill. a big contradiction to the merciful inquisitor that she is 90% of the time. it happens just with people she meets and gets attached to, can't imagine what'd happen if it's a partner of hers that gets hurt yikes

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 20th December

Well, I wanted an upbeat rocker, and I think I got two for the price of one! Both artists this week are known quantities, but it's good to see them still scoring some hits and adapting to a more modern sound.

Singing the Blues - Guy Mitchell (peaked at Number 1)

I already knew this song quite well before firing it up - it was a staple of family roadtrips in my childhood, and somehow its mix of chirpy whistling, strummy guitar and repetitive lyrics just wormed their way into some corner of my brain and stuck there, as a result of which I could absolutely sing you the majority of this song by heart. I think it also helps that there's a version that's been adapted as a local football song, where I grew up?

Thankfully, it's quite a good song. Its main trick is that it combines a perky, upbeat tune with some almost theatrically downbeat lyrics about how Guy's never felt more like singin' the blues. He's lost his love, and suddenly the moon and stars no longer shine / The dream is gone I thought was mine. He sings it all with a sort of camp hamminess, especially on lines about how he's gonna cry-y-y-y over you, and you can't help but suspect that Guy's enjoying wallowing in his misery, just a little bit.

It doesn't hurt that the song's got so many other elements that just scream "fun", from the relatively fast pace, to the whistling solo in the middle, to the backing singers repeating key phrases like cry over you and the way that Guy's voice periodically dips into this low-pitched, croony register that's just on the edge of being silly. It's almost tailor-made to sing along with, once you've heard it a few times.

It's also apparently well know among charts fans for having reached Number 1 not once, not twice, but three separate times, as it kept getting unseated and then coming back. One time it got unseated by a different version of Singing the Blues. Which is kind of interesting, if you're a nerd about that kind of thing.

Cindy, Oh Cindy - Eddie Fisher (5)

Is there a more 1950s rock and roll title out there? I feel like Cindy as a name is just peak 1950s, you don't get many babies called Cindy nowadays. No idea what to expect here, but I'm sold on the title.

The song itself starts promisingly, with some slowly booming bass leading into a guitar and string riff, all of which set up Eddie's introduction, where he entreats his love straight away: Cindy, oh Cindy / Cindy don't let me down / Write me a letter soon / And I'll be homeward bound.

It's effective enough, and sets the tone for the whole song, as Eddie then unfolds the story of what he's done. You see, he joined the navy to see a bit of the world, but despite travelling all over the place, he's still pining after Cindy, who he left behind. You get the sense that he maybe only realised this after leaving her behind, and it leads to some of the loveliest moments of the song, as Eddie sings about how I see her face in every wave / Her lips kiss every breeze or about At night I pace the lonely deck, caressed by memories.

It's all pretty classic 1950s fare - how many songs have we now had about lovers separated when the man goes off on some sort of military service? - but the way that Eddie's longing is projected out onto the world around him adds a sort of poetry that in turn brings a touch of class that these "I really miss my girl back home" songs don't always have. And it's the same with the orchestration of it all, which goes a step or two beyond what you'd normally see in songs like this. I mean, at one point, there's even what sounds like an oboe? Which is definitely not part of your standard pop set-up.

The song was apparently not an Eddie Fisher original, but was rather by a band called Vince Martin and the Tarriers. They, in turn, had been inspired by the Weavers and the Kingston Trio, both bands part of an ongoing American folk revival, who were performing a work song called Pay Me My Money Down, itself originally written and sung by black stevedores in the Sea Islands of Georgia. It's an influece that's kind of cool - we're not getting much folk music yet, but it's interesting to see its influence filtering through into the mainstream like this, even if it's limited in scope.

Come to think of it, it's a similar type of folk music that's inspiring people like Lonnie Donegan, but I imagine his take on Pay Me My Money Down would sound very different!

Yeah, I enjoyed both of these songs. They're fun, and are both interesting examples of artists who we were hearing back in 1952, but who've adapted and fitted their sound to work in a more 1956 context. And both attempts are very respectable, even if one's definitely my favourite.

Favourite song of the bunch: Signing the Blues

[sleepy-seal]

like i get being frustrated. listen to me i get it. but some of you have to realize that there are really only a few options for a lot of media companies that made their start on a place like youtube, which include:

a) move off platform. this likely means something like a streaming service. this is good because it means that the creatives are more in control of their productions, no ads, and they are under no obligation of censorship or needing to be dumbed down for potential investors. the downside is that a lot of fans can't afford it anymore and are isolated. there's also no garuntee that this will be sustainable either.

b) downsizing. cannibalizing their own company. this means things like lay-offs, cutting costs on productions. this is good because it means the company can save a bit more money and they can keep going for just a little bit longer. this is bad though because not only does it mean that you lose valuable talent or crew, but it also means that the productions get dumbed down. you don't get fun sets anymore or quirky editing. props cost a lot too depending on what you buy so you have to cut down on that. eventually you just get a husk of what the production once was. this is fine if you're a more loyal fan, but with prices going up and things getting more and more expensive, this won't last.

c) content farms. this is the worst fate a formerly beloved company can take. think elsagate but for adults. i don't need to explain why this is bad but i'll be brief. the company is no longer it's former self, just a shell that caters to advertisers. imagine what happened with AVGN, packed with sponsorships and barely resembling its former self. this is also not very sustainable either because either fans will get sick of this and drop the videos, or they will just keep churning like a machine, barely resembling itself. either that or you get

d) the company shuts down. things get too expensive and they finally crunch the numbers and say "we've done all we can do". the only good this does is means that they don't have to pay for things anymore. the bad thing is that they go bankrupt, they shut down. this is a very likely ending that will happen to a lot of media companies that aren't exploiting everything in sight i imagine.

you can create what-ifs about possible ways x productions or y companies can do to keep afloat, but a lot of the options boil down into this. right now a lot of media conglomerates are taking money from artists and filmmakers and creatives in general and it's getting harder to make high quality films or videos. it's especially getting harder with the blatant rise in censorship and the desire to make everything "advertiser friendly".

hey. look at me. look me in the eyes. you do realize that creatives leaving youtube to start their own streaming platform is maybe not their fault and instead evidence of a terrifying reality that is youtube no longer being a viable platform for anyone who is a filmmaker. maybe the fact that multiple channels are moving off platform is not because they're greedy assholes and instead just trying to survive in a world where everything is progressively getting shittier and censored and more packed with ads and the only way to sustain themselves is not being on a site that barely pays its creators fairly and the only way to make money is shitty sponsorships (like betterhelp, hellofresh, whatever was going on with that "lords and ladies" buying land bullshit was) and ad revenue, which has been proven in the past to not be nearly sustainable enough if you're a company channel (or in general!!!!). maybe this isn't the fault of INDIE MEDIA COMPANIES and the fault of big corporations who are taking money away from creators and putting it in their own pockets.

a lot of you are angry that the videos and creators you know and love are slowly getting paywalled and it's hard to afford things nowadays and i get that. i can barely afford things myself and i'm unemployed. i'm Lucky to even be able to live with my parents until i get a stable job and graduate college. but you all need to stop putting blame on these creatives who want to fund productions they love and are passionate about and put more pressure on corporations like youtube or google or like every big media company that's forcing ads in your face every day while it tries to make more money each quarter.