#jessica combs

[drrav3nb]

WOMAN WALKS AHEAD (dir. Susanna White)

Fire needs more logs. I'm warm enough.

[shannendoherty-fans]

1998 - The Women of The WB by Norman Jean Roy: Holly Marie Combs, Michelle Williams, Jessica Biel, Katie Holmes, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Shannen Doherty, Keri Russell and Alyssa Milano

[thehalloweenhub]

Witches But Make It Autumn 🍁

[emotinalsupportturtle]

same(ish) pose opposite vibes

I would run like a little child and hug one of them and run away from the other at the speed of light

this is really a testament to the fact that you don't actually have to change much of your appearance, general mannerisms or accent to perfectly embody completely opposing characters

[retvenkos]

every movie i watched in 2022  ⇢  new moon (2009) dir. chris weitz

“you can't protect me from everything — at some point something's going to separate us. it's gonna be an accident, or illness, or old age... as long as i'm human. and the only solution is to change me.”

[viceandviscera]

[scarletspider2the2ndpower]

Variant cover for Scarlet Spiders (Vol. 1/2014), #1 by Mark Bagley.

[lifestylebysheena]

Diddy Reads Off His Close Friends List

[literarysiren]

A couple years ago, for his birthday, I got really into looking at Stuart Gordon's work, and found that Castle Freak, while definitely still a pretty intense horror film, also had at its core an incredibly interesting dual depiction of disability. It's had a special place in my heart ever since, to say nothing of the newer remake.

[quantumfizz]

Sir I want to watch a video analyzing the fashion and costume design of Charmed, not listen to you deride "pop feminism" and misunderstand the concept of the male gaze for more than half the video and then talk about the actual thing you titled the video

[toddbarrowcountry]

I had a great time filming with this cast. Big shout out to my buddy Cliff!!!🤠🎬🎥🍿

[lizfielding99]

Free book!

A Royal Wedding A while I ago, at the invitation of Tule Books, I got together with three writing friends and we wrote a quartet of books set around a royal wedding. It began with emails flying back and forth as we decided on locations. The  much travelled Sophie Weston found us the perfect spot for the prince. Tucked just below Italy on the Adriatic. For the English setting, I’d recently been to…

[tarjapearce]

Miguel x reader x punkmiguel?????

PRETTY PLEASE 🥺🥺🥺

Hope this makes it justice 😳 (No proofread at all I warn you.)

art by @bumbleboots_art in Ig

The Multiverse was still a baby concept for you. All you knew was that in other universes there were exact copies of you, doing any sort of things. A doctor that would surely make your parents proud, a stripper, that would surely cause the opposite effect. It was like Barbie and her own Multiverse.

Miguel had just quirked an eyebrow when you used the metaphor. But in your universe, you were another Spiderwoman, and you had been recruited by none other than Miguel O'Hara. HQ soon turned into a second home for you.

Annoying as you were sometimes, your input had provided him a different perspective, that bit by bit, had made you earn a spot in his personal circle. You adapted well, quick learner and practical.

---

Smoke filled in the place. The pressure levels from the particle accelerator had gone a bit too over the top, a miscalculation from both you and Miguel.

The explosion in the lab had created a rift, a small portal, enough for an unsettling scene stand before you, Miguel, Jessica and Hobie.

Another Miguel had gone through the rift, tearing through the fabric of space and time. But this wasn't your usual grumpy faced, sarcastic ass and perpetually tired with a chronic savior complex Miguel. No. He was just as tall as your groaning in pain boss, same facial structure. Yet he wasn't.

This portal Miguel had his hair ruffled, yet stylish, contrary to the neatly, well combed hair do you were already used by now. This Miguel had piercings in his face. His brow, and lips and ears to be more specific. He wore a leathery black jacket, the "NO FUTURE" caption drawn into it. Scruffy jeans with a studded belt and heavy boots. His fangs were out, he wore them proudly you had noticed.

Your Miguel, the one that was always grumbling about something, just stared back at him with a frown yet wide eyes. It was as if this Miguel had hung around too much Hobie, which just stared at him with a lazy approval smile.

A punk Miguel. They were face to face, seizing eachother with scrutinizing gazes. A typical 'opposite twins'. What archetype would each one be? Your Miguel would surely be the responsible and well behaved twin that would rarely to never break the rules. Describing the other would be to only make it out even more obvious.

The punk Miguel smirked at him.

"Puta madre, Qué viejo me veo." (Holy shit, I look old af)

Miguel frowned immediately as you giggled.

"¿Where am I?" The alternate version of your boss/almost lover spoke as he took in whatever his eyes could Guitar hanging upside-down his back. Just like Hobie's, hand tucked in his jacket.

"Miguel?"

"Hm?"

"Sí?"

The both turned to face you once more, speaking at unison.

"We need to send him back, as soon as we can."

"Should we give him a temporary pass?"

"No."

"Puedo oírte desde acá , jefazo." (I can hear you from here, Big boss)

Miguel scowled and faced him.

"Cállate." (Shut up)

"¿O qué?" (Or what?)

This Miguel smirked playfully.

"Alright, Alright. Let's calm down." You got in between them, nearly sandwiched between the mass of muscles and clothes to then create a bit of space between them.

"Let's play nice. We gotta figure a way to get him back home."

Punk Miguel wrapped an arm around your neck and spoke

"Gotta listen to her, old man. Don't wanna hang out in a place where you see yourself as the face of oppression. " Hobie saluted him from afar.

Ouch.

"Call me Miggy, Princesa."

Miguel's eye twitched at your stupified state and his words. You smiled at him, excitement sparkling in your eyes.

Trouble. Everything smelled like trouble. Jessica just rolled her eyes.

----

Reluctantly he ended up giving Miggy a temporary pass. Technically he still was Spiderman. His suit had you like a fangirl, marveling over the littlest details. Just like Hobie but darker and meaner.

Miguel would give you tasks, sometimes absurd ones, just to keep you away from himself. Literally.

"What's so funny?" You giggled as you went through the tasks

"Oh, nothing." The not so subtle jealousy from him was endearing to you.

The rest were as fascinated as you were. Miggy and Hobie surely clicked. They would ramble on for hours about their situations and how things were going in their universes. Never in his wildest dreams Hobie would admit that this Miguel was nice to be around.

---

Of course Miggy would scurry within missions whenever something caught his interest. He was more than capable in the battle field, still it was like having an unhinged different version of him. Still to this day it was bizarre to see himself acting like that. Like a total stranger.

Miguel couldn't help but wonder if he had gone through the same in his universe. He had overhead a bit of conversation with Hobie and just mentioned losing someone really important during duty. A requirement that seemed the only demand to join the Spider Club. As Miggy called it.

----

"¿Nunca te relajas?" (You never catch a break?)

"No."

"¿No is everything you say?" He smirked

"No. Yes."

"Con razón hasta canas tengo." (No wonder why I have white hairs.)

"¿Puedes callarte?" (Can you shut up?)

"The only good thing of being you is that we have this princesita here." He gestured over you as you sat down on a further chair.

"Guys, play nice." You mumbled as you entered the room. Miggy smiled your way, hands hoarding you briefly and twirled your body before letting you go.

"There is no we in there."

Miggy shrugged as he eyed you

"Sharing is caring, amigo."

"I'm not your friend. Nor share."

"Déjala elegir entonces. ¿O el pensamiento libre también es una amenaza para ti? " (Let her choose then. Or free thinking is also a threat for you? )

You couldn't help to shrink further and further at his words. Your cheeks were impossibly red, your stomach fluttered. Despite the fight, the both complimented eachother so well, like black and white. What one lacked, the other compensated and viceversa.

You gulped as both Miguels set their deep red eyes on you. Expecting. A shiver ran down your spine. The alarm of an anomaly flared up, you had never ran to duty so fast.

[writingoddess1125]

The Jessica Rabbit Effect (Shorts)

Buggy Headcanon+story. Buggy x Reader

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Previous <<< >>> Masterlist

This is a series of random thoughts from the Jessica Rabbit Series

Buggy likes to be the little spoon at times, so if he's had a bad day will cuddle against his darling wife and let her take care of him.

You often have to do Buggy's hair. Since its a wild mess at the best of times when he returns from see its a bit of a ritual for him to shower, get into his favorite pants and sit between your thighs as you brush out his hair.

Has bitten your Thigh- earning a playful smack of the comb

Sometimes he will sing for you- He actually has a lovely singing voice but you'll be the only one to hear it.

Surprisngly decent at cooking- Hes no chef but sure as hell can make one hell of a breakfast sandwich.

YOU are the secret Perv of the relationship, Most would assume its Buggy but its actually You.

You had been stalking your prey for the last 5 minutes, Buggy was currently going through some crates he had kept in the closet- saying something about a old hat of sorts. It was the perfect angle however-

However he was unaware of his wife slowly stepping forwards him as he bent over once more to dig deeper in the box-

Closer...

Maybe right overrr..

Buggy Yelled suddenly as he felt fingers dig into the flesh of his ass as he turned and heard you cackle and quickly dash away as he gives chase.

He often returns from his sailing with gifts of whatever you like. Jewlery? More Sewing stuff? Books? Whatever you want he will snag for you.

You two secretly read raunchy novels together, Sometimes you will send him a book while he is away and he will read it at night before bed. Before sending one of his own-

Often resulting in the two of you speaking about the books in depth when together good or bad-

Buggy Takes care of you since you are more likely to burn out-

EXTRA! (Short Story)

You'd been hard at work, it seemed your business had been really taking off with now your two most demanding customers Sir Mihawk and Sir Crocodile. Who seemed to not only be picky about their fabrics but also seemed to damage their clothes constantly! You'd been busy to say the least.

Right now was no exception, You were standing in the Livingroom of yur home adding a few final buttons to a coat of Sir Crocodile, Letting your mind wonder as you worked tirelessly to have it completed before the morning-

As you worked you felt a hand touch your waist, giving a loud shrill yell as you spun around and swung-

"OW! What the hell!?" Your husbands voice sounded as you managed to whack his nose with a open palm. Buggy seemed to have just sailed in, still in his hat and coat and now rubbing his now sore nose with a frown-

"Im so sorry darling! I didnt realize it was you here let me get a pack for your nose-" You started, still coming down from the fright your husband had given you and went to flutter away to get a ice pack, However Buggy stopped you and pulled you close. Examming your face closely and frowning.

"Forget it- What are you doing up so late anyway? You should still be asleep.. You look tired-"

He grumbled, catching your look of confusion.

"Early? Its only- Um" You look to the large clock and blink in surprise at seeing the time. 1:37am!?

"O-Oh i guess I lost track of time an-"

"Did you eat dinner!?" Buggy cut you off again seeing your little work table and spotting only half finished tea and almost a finished pastry, most likely from the morning before- You bit your lip in embarrassment not even having the voice to say anything at being caught.

With a etched frown Buggy suddenly hoisted you up to his shoulder causing a loud yelp to leave you.

"Buggy!" You yell as you are carried like a sack to your shared master bedroom, red faced from the action.

"Buggy I still have to finish Crocodiles Coat an- EEP!"

A full palmed smack hit your behind from, Buggy- Cutting off your tirade as you felt your brain short circuit for a moment. Buggy walked into the master bathroom and set you on the counter, grumbling to himself as he started up a bath and went to your bedroom to start grabbing clothes.

"Buggy Boo-"

You started again but his hand floated to you and placed a finger to your lips.

"Id start undressing if I were you! Cause If I do it I may get handsy!"

Buggy called out from the bedroom as he grabbed more clothes. His free floating hand making a grabbing motion to your chest as if to give warning- You couldn't help but let a laugh out at this as you pushed his hand away playfully and slid off the countertop and getting undressed.

Setting your clothes in the hamper as Buggy came back in the bathroom with fresh PJs and already in his boxers only. He eyes looking over your figure in desire, Making you blush of course. Setting the clothes down Buggy removed his Boxers with dramatic flare of course and climbed in the water first, turning it off in the process as his other hand detached and guided you in with care. You leaning back against Buggy's chest and sighing in delight at the hot water. The stress already melting away as the two of you sat and soaked.

After a little while the two of you began to wash up, Buggy putting your hair up as the comforting silence and occasional splash of water from rinsing could be heard.

After the two of you smelled like sweet apple soap and the hot water had cooled to warm the both of you got out. Buggy taking the time to dry you off with a big fluffy towel while you braided his hair so it wouldn't tangle.

Getting dressed you walked into the bedroom and plopped onto the bed, starting to finally feel tired as Buggy laid next to you. His hands however leaving the room-

"Better?" Buggy asked as he looked at you, you leaning over and placing a soft kiss on his lips.

"Much, Thank you darling" You smile, just to glance over and see his hands returning with a series of items half hazard. A box of crackers, some cured meat, a few apples and some random half eaten cheese blocks. Paired with a knife of course you assume from his belt.

"Dinner of champions!" Buggy boasted, cracking open the wine bottle and handing it to you, rolling your eyes playfully as you took a sip.

The two of you seated on your marital bed, drinking straight from a wine bottle and eating the simple meal, chatting away about random topics.

"So you think the treasure is further south?" You ask, Buggy nodding as he took another bit of cheese and crackers in his mouth as he spoke with his mouth full cutting some meat for you and passing it over. "I 'Hink Cap Jo'n hit it und'er som' seri's of i'slands sout-" (I think Capt John hid it under some series of islands south).

"A Yellow VELVET Shirt!?" Buggy said dramatically making you laugh as you took some apple into your mouth and nodded. Buggy face scrunching up in disgust. "Come On, I'm a clown and I think that's tacky! Even for Crocodile!" You start to laugh as buggy passes the now half empty bottle to you.

Laughter and Chatter filled the bedroom till around 3am, when Buggy set the leftovers of the impromptu meal on the nightstand, the empty wine bottle on the floor and cuddled you close. Pressing you against his neck as you two felt exhaustion take you.

"Your not working for the next few days.. Gonna Burn Out-" Buggy mumbled as he felt your breath even out and cuddle closer to him. You nod "Fine.. But same goes to you" You yawn, Buggy patting your arm in agreement.

"Deal.. Now sleep" He grumbled closing his eyes.

"I love you Bugs"

"I love you More.."

[chiaraanatra]

Hurricane

Request: I was wondering if I could request a fic after Hurricane by Luke combs??? - Anon

Summary: Jake comes back to Texas for his sister's wedding where is greeted by an old flame and a new spark.

Warnings: swearing, kissing, wedding, you wear a purple bridesmaids dress, use of Y/N.

Word Count: 1.2k

AN: This took so much longer than it should have! I greatly apologize for the wait! I am not sure if this was what you were looking for Anon, but this really got me back in the writing sprit. I hope you enjoy!

As always feedback is always appreciated! Please don't repost my work!

《 m.list || ao3 》

Jake grabbed another cup of coffee as his phone rang. He pulled it out to see that it was a facetime call from his sister, Jen.

Oh, shit the dress…

He answered the call, greeted giggling and a black screen. “Hello?”

“Jess found the perfect dress!” his mother practically screamed into the phone.

Jake couldn’t help the smile on his face, excited for his youngest sister’s wedding.

“Jake, you will not believe how perfect it is,” Jen’s voice rang out.

“Well, are you going to show me or am I just gonna stare at a black screen?”

“Mom, give me the phone.” He was quickly met with the view of his sister in her white gown. It suited her style and personality perfectly.

“Okay what do you think? You see the dress, right?” the youngest Seresin gave a twirl.

“Yeah, I see, and you look beautiful, sis.”

Jess grabbed the phone from her sister’s hand and turned it so he could see her face. “You see how happy and excited I am.”

Jake gave her a slightly confused look “Yes… where are you going with this, Jess?”

“All this to say that I don’t want to freak you out but… I invited Y/N and she’ll be the second in my wedding party next to Jen. David wanted you to be the second groomsmen next to his brother and all of this is to say that you and Y/N would be paired when walking down the aisle. And I know you two have a past but she’s my best friend and it’s been years and- “

“Jessica!” Jake cut her off before she could spiral completely, overthinking every decision she's made to this point. “It’s okay. She’s your best friend. If she’s fine with it, I’m fine with it.” Jake gave her a smile that assured her that everything would be okay.

That conversation was months ago, and it was just hitting Jake now, as his plane was about to land in Austin that not only would he have to see you, but you would be partnered with him for his little sister’s wedding.

Before he knew it, he was standing in the wings of the chapel watching as David prepared to walk down the aisle to take his place. He had yet to see you, somehow avoiding it until the very last minute. He watched as the other bridesmaids and groomsmen made their way into the center and down the aisle before he was greeted with the sight of you. You were breath taking, hardly changing since the last time he saw you. The lilac dress hugged your curves and fit perfectly. A gentle wind from the open doors blew through your hair.

In a flash every memory he had ever shared with you came rushing back.

When you looked up to meet his gaze you could feel your cheeks become warm. He was just as handsome as you remember. You were met with his signature smile and couldn’t help but let your eyes linger over his body. His tailored suit emphasized his muscles, ones that had been their prior but had become more prominent during his time with the Navy.

You stepped towards one another and placed your arm through his before making your way to the front of the chapel.

He leaned his head ever so slightly towards you, “You look beautiful.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Lieutenant.”

Jake had to stifle a laugh at your comment.

Once at the altar, you removed your arm from his and he watched as you took your place.

Jake couldn’t take his eyes off you the entirety of the ceremony. You tried your best to pay attention and watch as your best friend married the love of her life, but you couldn’t help stealing quick glances and thinking back to the memories you shared with Jake. The man you thought at one point was the love of your life, and at times, like right now, still believed that might be true.

You always believed Jake Seresin was your 'one that got away.' The two of you had dated in high school before reluctantly and amicably breaking up after you got accepted into college and Jake got accepted into the Naval Academy.

After the wedding you found yourself walking around the reception before resting your eyes on Jake, who was sitting at the bar drinking a whiskey on ice. He looked up from his glass to be greeted with the sight of you.

Before you knew what was happening you found yourself taking the seat next to him and ordering your drink of choice.

The two of you found yourselves talking about everything, your work, the navy, the wedding. Neither of you could help it as the conversation turned to the two of you and how things used to be.

As the reception came to a close and people began to part ways, Jake turned to you. “Need a ride home?”

You took barley a moment to think about the offer, “yeah… that would be great. Thank you.”

After saying your goodbyes, the two of you made your way towards his truck. He opened the door and offered you his hand to help you steady yourself. Once you were seated, he gathered any remanence of your dress and placed it beside you before closing the door and making his way to the driver’s side.

The 30-minute drive back to your house was spent in silence except for the soft sounds coming from the radio.

Then you rolled in with your hair in the wind

Baby, without warning…

Halfway through the drive, it had started to gently rain. But, right as he pulled into your gravel driveway it began to pour.

Just as you were about to put your hand on the door, Jake placed his hand gently on your shoulder. “Put this on.” He handed you his suit jacket before running out and making his way to the passenger side door. You quickly put his jacket on before he opened the door.

“Jake what are you doing?” He smiled helping you down from the truck before scooping you up into his arms carrying you up the driveway and onto the porch. “You idiot, you’re soaked!”

He gently set you down, “I couldn’t have you running up your gravel driveway in heels in the rain.” He gently removed a soaked strand of hair off your cheek. “Knowing you, you would have fallen flat on your face.” His hand lingered on your soft skin that was bringing back a flood of memories.

You stared into his eyes; they held a sense of longing. Before you knew it your arms were wrapped around his neck and your lips were on his. His lips were warm and soft, bringing you a sense of familiarity you had thought to be long forgotten.

He was the first to pull away ever so slightly, resting his forehead against yours, “I missed you… I thought I was okay but seeing you today… Y/N you hit me like a hurricane. I have never stopped loving you and I never want to let you go again.”

You pulled him in closer, arms wrapping around him, resting your head against his chest, “Then don’t.”

“But I have to go back to base and-”

Before he could spiral, you kissed him again, then every so slightly pulled away to look him in the eyes, “did you mean it when you said you never stopped loving me?”

His eyes said it before the words came from his lips, “With everything I have.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

Tags: @callsign-viper @luckyladycreator2 @saturnsbabe69 @desert-fern

As always, feedback, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!𝑊𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑? 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 💜!

[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.